THE  LIBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


THS  HONSrSUCKLS 


A  PLAY 

In   Three  Acts 


BY  GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 


Translated  by  CECILE  SARTORIS  ami 
GABRIELLE  ENTHOVEN 


'  Gotelef,"  rafeleiit  Englcis 

'  Chievrefucil"  le  ntiment  Franccis 

MARIE  DE  FRANCE 


NEW  YORK:    FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
Publishers 

IQI6 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 

PIERRE  DAGON 

IVAIN  DE  LA  COLDRE 

LAURENCE  DAGON 

HELISSENT  DE  LA  COLDRE 

ATJDE 

THE  SWALLOW 

Two  SERVANTS 


2041594 


THE  HONEYSUCKLE 


THE  FIRST  ACT 

SCENE  :  In  an  old  pleasure-house,  built  in  the  Italian 
style,  in  a  land  of  olive  trees,  not  far  from  the 
Western  Mediterranean,  stands  a  sort  of  round  hall 
which  reminds  one  singularly  of  that  designed  by 
Raphael  for  Giulio  de'  Medici  on  the  Monti  Mario. 
It  consists  of  two  lateral  apses,  with  pilasters, 
columns,  empty  niches,  grotesques,  and  a  coffered 
ceiling,  united  by  the  architrave  of  a  vast  rectangular 
bay  opening  on  a  vestibule  with  three  arches  on  the 
garden  side.  Beneath  each  semi-dome  is  a  frieze 
of  painted  stucco,  developing  the  emblematic  sub- 
jects of  the  hazel  and  the  honeysuckle,  as  expressed 
in  the  ancient  lay  of  Marie  de  France : 

"  D'els  dous  fu  il  tut  altresi 
cume  del  chevrefueil  esteit 
ki  a  la  cold  re  se  perneit  .  .  ." 


2  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  i 

Amidst  the  entwining  of  the  hazel  and  honeysuckle 
winds  a  riband  upon  which  can  still  be  traced  the 
motto  of  the  harpist  knight  of  Brittany  : 

"  Bele  amie,  si  est  de  nus 
Ke  vus  senz  mei,  ne  jco  senz  vus." 

In  the  middle  of  each  hemicycle  is  an  ornate  door; 
and  in  the  centre  of  the  diameter,  on  the  left,  erected 
on  a  pedestal  of  the  Tuscan  order,  stands  a  statue 
of  "  Abundance  "  after  the  manner  of  Jean  Goujon, 
whilst  on  the  right  a  similar  base  supports  Hie 
worn  torso  of  a  draped  Muse. 

In  the  background ',  behind  the  laurels  growing  in  boxes 
against  the  pilasters,  is  a  square  garden  with 
symmetrical  divisions  edged  with  box.  TJiis  is 
enclosed  by  a  high,  sombre  hornbeam  hedge,  uni- 
formly trimmed.  Before  the  portico  is  an  extinct 
fountain  in  the  form  of  a  wherry  supported  by  the 
bodies  of  four  sea-horses. 

It  is  an  unsettled  afternoon  at  the  end  of  April.  The 
patter  of  a  shower  on  the  trellis  and  balustrades 
abates,  then  dies  away.  The  gleaming  of  the  sun 
on  the  summit  of  the  verdant  walls  is  like  a  heavy 
gilding  on  massive  bronze.  The  fragrance  of  the 
arbours  comes  in  tvaves ;  for  rain-washed  honey- 


ACT  i  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  3 

suckle  blooms  in  this  demesne,  which  bears  its 
name,  in  remembrance  of  the  great  love  of  Harare 
de  la  Coldre  and  the  beautiful  Roman,  Isotta 
Orsini. 

AUDE  is  alone,  standing,  pensive,  anodous.  On  hearing 
a  dear  voice  call  her  from  outside,  she  starts  and 
turns  round.  Light  and  vivacious  as  a  bird,  a 
young  girl  runs  tip  the  steps  of  the  porch  and 
crosses  the  vestibule,  breathless,  laughing,  clad 
in  white  and  raven-black  exquisitely. 

VOICE. 
Aude !     Aude  !     Are  you  there  ? 

AUDE. 

Oh!  The  Swallow!  [She  goes  towards  her,  all 
radiant.]  From  whence  do  you  hail,  Clariel  ?  Come 
in,  come  in ! 

THE  SWALLOW. 

I  am  out  of  breath.  Do  not  kiss  me ;  you  will  get 
wet.  I  am  all  drenched. 

AUDE. 
Let  me  see.     No,  not  so  bad  as  all  that. 


4  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

THE  SWALLOW. 

What  a  shower !  It  caught  me  at  the  gate ;  and 
in  spite  of  my  flitting  from  arbour  to  arbour,  from 
bower  to  bower  .  .  . 

AUDB. 

How  exquisitely  cool  you  are  !  Fragrant  from  the 
shower,  you  smell  of  lilies  of  the  valley,  bpx  and 
honeysuckle.  And  your  heart  throbs  in  your  throat, 
sweet  little  sister  bird.  Recover  your  breath  !  Come, 
perch  up  here. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

Oh!  I  cannot.  I  came  only  for  an  instant,  just 
to  glance  at  myself  in  your  eyes.  You  know,  Herbert 
stayed  down  below  by  the  clump  of  hazel  trees. 

AUDE. 
Herbert  has  arrived  ? 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Yes,  this  morning. 

AUDE. 
That  is  why  you  scintillate  with  gladness.   You  are 


ACT  i  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  5 

more  Clariel  than  ever.     It  seems  as  if  you  would 
slip  through  my  hands.     But  I  hold  you  by  the  wings. 

[She  holds  her  by  the  shoulders,  almost  shaking 
her. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

No,  Audain.     Let  me  go  ! 

AUDE. 

But  it  is  still  showery  up  there  !  While  he  is  waiting, 
Herbert,  like  all  the  others,  will  cut  from  a  dripping 
hazel  tree  the  famous  branch,  strip  it,  scan  tie  it,  and 
engrave  your  two  names  entwined.  He  needs  time 
for  that.  Oh,  Clariel,  you  blush  up  to  your  hidden 
ears! 

THE  SWALLOW. 
How  could  you  guess,  Audain  ? 

[She  blushes,  laughing. 
AUDE. 

It  is  not  very  difficult.  You  look  exactly  like  a 
mischievous  little  Isolde  who  has  just  demanded  some 
small  work  of  patience  from  her  well-trained  little 
Tristan. 

[Amused,  delighted,  the   visitor   laughs,  raising 
her  throat  like  a  bird  whilst  drinking. 


6  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

THE  SWALLOW. 

It  is  true.  I  taught  him  the  lesson — "  All  lovers 
who  enter  into  the  dominion  of  the  Honeysuckle  must 
fulfil  the  ritual  of  fidelity."  I  assure  you,  I  told  him 
most  faithfully  the  history  of  your  noble  ancestor, 
Hardr6  de  la  Coldre,  and  of  Isotta  Orsini,  the 
Roman.  So,  now  I  shall  go  back  and  find  the  wand 
entwined  with  a  spray  of  honeysuckle  as  on  the  road 
to  the  White  Heath. 

"  Bele  amie,  si  est  de  nus 
Ne  vus  senz  mei,  ne  jeo  senz  vus." 

AUDE. 
You  are  happy  ?     You  are  happy  ? 

[She  speaks  to  her  in  a  low  tone,  her  voice  altered 
and  with  a  sort  of  sudden  fierceness,  which 
dies  out  immediately. 

THE  SWALLOW, 
Audain !     Audain  ! 

AUDE. 

You  are  happy  ?  The  blood  in  your  face  is  as 
transparent  as  when  you  gaze  at  a  hand  against  the 
sun. 


ACT  i  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  7 

THE  SWALLOW. 

How  beautiful  you  are,  Audain  !  I  have  never 
seen  you  look  like  that. 

AUDE. 
How  can  you  say  that,  flattering  little  swallow  ? 

THE  SWALLOW. 

It  is  the  light,  perhaps.  To-day  there  is  another 
light ;  do  you  not  see  ?  As  though  all  were  changing. 
Now  I  notice  that  your  eyebrows  are  thicker.  They 
are  almost  joined  together.  How  serious  you  have 
become,  eaglet !  You  look  now  as  though  you  wanted 
to  cry. 

AUDE. 
I  want  to  go  away,  to  go  away ! 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Already? 

AUDE. 

Where  will  you  go  with  your  betrothed  this  even- 
ing? 


8  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  i 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Alas,  not  far ! 

[She  sight  and  turns  towards  the  sunlit  garden. 

AUDE. 

I  would  wish  to  bare  my  feet  and  go  alone  by 
certain  pathways  I  have  not  revisited,  to  walk 
beside  a  hedge  upon  which  is  drying  the  linen  of  the 
poor,  to  soothe  some  wandering  waif  gone  astray,  to 
listen  to  the  cracked  tinkling  of  bells,  to  the  shriek  of  a 
passing  train,  to  the  cries  of  sea-birds  that  come  soaring 
up  the  river.  I  would  wish  no  longer  to  remember 
my  name,  to  stop  at  a  farm  door  and  beg  a  glass  of 
water  from  some  old  woman  just  lighting  a  lamp,  and 
then  to  fall  a  little  farther  away,  with  my  face  against 
the  earth. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

"  Las !  Merencolia ! "  as  our  poet,  Charles  d'Orleans, 
would  say.  Why,  Audain?  And  I  thought  you 
were  so  glad  to  be  back  after  these  three  yean  in 
this  "  Peaceful  Dwelling  of  the  Honeysuckle  I " 

AUDE. 
You  are  little,   Clariel.     You    are   a   very   little 


ACT  i  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  9 

swallow,  all  white  and  black.  Your  little  heart  is  all 
bursting  with  the  spring.  You  breathe  as  in  a  fairy 
tale.  You  do  not  understand.  I  speak  of  life ! 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Oh! 

AUDK. 

During  these  three  years  I  have  changed  so  intensely 
that  it  seems  to  me  almost  as  though  I  had  another 
person's  blood  in  my  veins.  And  you,  you  are  abso- 
lutely unchanged,  and  yet  I  hardly  recognize  you. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Really ! 

AUDE. 
You  cannot  understand  me,  Clariel. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

I  am  really  more  gosling  than  swallow.  I  admit 
that.  And  then,  I  think  you  have  told  me  so, 
pretty  clearly.  And  so  you  are  not  glad  to  be 
here,  now  that  the  old  dwelling  is  restored  to  "  They 
of  La  Coldre,"  to  know  that  the  house  where  you 


to  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

were  born  and  where  your  father  died  is  no  longer  in 
the  hands  of  strangers,  so  that  in  it  you  can  re-live 
your  memories,  our  memories — Audain  ? 

AUDE. 

Ours  ?  ...  Do  you  remember  that  picture  of  Jesus 
that  poor  Miss  Turner  used  to  show  us  ?  It  had  eyes 
that  seemed  closed  first  of  all,  and  filled  with  shadows ; 
the.n  little  by  little  they  opened,  one  knew  not  how, 
and  fixed  us  with  a  gaze  we  could  not  bear.  Each 
time  you  used  to  turn  away,  shivering  and  screaming 
with  fear. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
It  is  true.    I  remember. 

AUDE. 

Here,  I  find  again  dark  memories  that  seem  to 
open  their  eyes  in  the  same  fashion,  and  I  feel  then 
as  if  I  had  something  to  cry  aloud. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
How  strange  you  are ! 

[She  seems  a  little  afraid, 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  n 

AUDK. 

In  the  same  way  the  doors  and  windows  here  open, 
as  if  some  one  were  expected.  The  curtains  sway, 
the  furniture  creaks,  and  in  each  corner  something  is 
straining — preparing. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
From  whence  does  that  voice  come  to  you  ? 

AUDE. 

Perhaps  I  have  a  voice  in  me,  a  voice  that  is  not  my 
own.  Do  I  recognize  it?  But  every  word,  in  a 
different  voice,  has  a  different  significance,  weight  and 
destiny.  Do  you  not  know  that  "The  Peaceful 
Dwelling  of  the  Honeysuckle  "  was  bought  again  for 
love  of  a  voice  ?  My  sister-in-law  decided  to  purchase 
it  because  my  brother  dreamed  continually  of  that 
old  Italian  organ  from  Bergamo  here  in  the  chapel, 
that  terrible  consoler  of  his  youth.  It  was  his  great 
passion.  Do  you  remember  when  we  both  hid  in 
the  confessional  to  listen  to  him  playing  fugues, 
motets  and  chorals  of  Frescobaldi,  for  hours  and 
hours? 

THE  SWALLOW. 

I  remember.     Sometimes  we  used  to  shiver  like 


I2  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  i 

paupers.  We  felt  the  cold  at  the  nape  of  our  necks, 
I  do  not  know  why,  as  in  the  wind  from  the  moun- 
tains. The  stained-glass  windows  seemed  to  us  to  be 
cut  out  of  blue  ice. 

AUDE. 

You  know  that  my  father  is  buried  there  under 
the  tribune. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

God  rest  his  soul ! 

AUDE. 

The  day  we  came  back  here,  after  all  the  sad  things 
that  you  know  and  that  you  do  not  know,  Ivain 
could  no  longer  restrain  his  impatience.  Old 
Dominique  walked  in  front  of  us,  opening  the  doors. 
We  went  too  quickly  to  look  at  anything,  but  we 
recognized  each  room  by  its  peculiar  smell,  its  floor- 
ing, the  colder  or  softer  atmosphere,  a  threshold,  a 
step.  When  we  went  into  the  chapel,  I  knelt  down 
upon  the  stone,  but  Ivain  at  once  climbed  into  the 
organ-loft.  I  heard  the  wood  creak  overhead,  the 
bellows  snort,  the  registers  squeak,  and  the  anguish 
of  my  heart  was  so  great  because  I  did  not  know 
whether  the  voice  would  come  from  above  or  from 
beneath  the  earth.  Time  seemed  to  stand  still.  I 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  13 

wanted  to  cry  out,  "  Speak !  Speak ! "  Oh,  I  cannot 
tell  you.  Surely  my  brother  was  suffocating  up 
there,  his  fingers  trembling.  Then  suddenly  the 
silence  was  rent.  It  was  not  the  voice  we  were 
waiting  for,  but  another  ! 

The  soul  of  the  organ,  too,  was  shattered,  and 
escaped  distraught,  obedient  no  longer.  I  sobbed, 
alone,  on  the  stone.  I  heard  my  brother  sobbing 
up  above,  over  the  keys,  and  there  was  nothing  left 
but  the  stones  upon  which  so  many  tears  had  already 
been  shed. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

Aude,  Aude,  how  sad  you  are !  Almost  sadder 
than  when  you  went  away.  What  is  the  matter 
with  you  ?  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  It  will 
pass.  Is  it  true  that  you  expect  your  mother — that 
you  are  to  be  reconciled  to  her,  and  to  her  husband  ? 
Forgive  me  for  asking  you  this ! 

AUDE. 
Ivain  wishes  it  ...  I  believe.     I  do  not  know. 

[Her  brow  darkens  and  she  frown*  for  an  instant. 
I  have  but  one  desire :  to  follow  a  path,  any  path 
that  will  lead  me  somewhere  where  . 


I4  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

THE  SWALLOW. 

Where  your  heart  would  go  before  you  and  say, 
"  Come  with  me ! "  Oh,  say  it,  own  it,  Audain !  Do 
you  feel  like  this  because  as  the  rondeau  says :  "  In 
love  is  there  aught  but  torture  ?  " 

AUDE. 
You  are  mad,  Clariel. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

You  will  not  tell  me  2  Perhaps  you  have  left 
some  one — over  there.  Is  that  what  you  are  grieving 
about  ?  Tell  me,  is  that  really  your  trouble  ? 


AUDE. 
What  madness ! 

THE  SWALLOW. 

Truly,  you  do  not  love?     You  .have  never  loved 
since  last  I  saw  you  ?     Tell  me,  confess  to  me  ! 

AUDE. 
What  is  love  ?    Tell  me,  I  do  not  know. 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  15 

THE  SWALLOW. 

Is  there  anything  else  in  the  world  ?  But  you 
know  all  about  it.  At  least,  you  saw  the  dawn  of 
Ivain  and  Helissent's  love.  You  see  it  each  day, 
here,  before  your  eyes. 

AUDE. 

One  does  not  see  clearly  what  is  too  close  to  one's 
eyes.  And  then,  Helissent  .  .  . 

THE  SWALLOW. 

Helissent  .  .  . 

AUDE. 

She  was  born  at  night.  She  is  so  reserved  that  near 
her  one  becomes  disheartened,  as  in  front  of  a  sham 
door  which  has  no  locks  or  hinges.  It  seems  to  me  as 
if  she  were  always  preceded  by  her  shadow — as  if  the 
only  radiance  she  emitted  emanated  from  her  dazzling 
shoulders.  And  I  have  the  feeling  that  through  that 
palpable  shadow  she  probes  me  every  time,  before  she 
stretches  out  her  hand  to  me.  One  knows  nothing. 
When  she  comes  in,  it  is  as  though  she  had  just  left 
the  wax  figure  of  an  incantation,  the  threads  of  a 
conspiracy,  some  perilous  game,  or  else  some  alchemic 
research.  Do  you  like  Helisseut  ? 


1 6  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

THE  SWALLOW. 

I  cannot  imagine  her  otherwise  than  beneath 
a  Venetian  domino.  Her  long,  narrow  eyes  observe 
and  spy  as  from  behind  a  mask  of  white  satin. 

AUDE. 

And  the  most  wonderful  thing  of  all  is,  that  one 
does  not  know  whether  under  the  domino  she  is  hiding 
a  weapon  of  death,  a  burning  wound,  or  Aladdin's 
lamp. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
And  if  she  were  hilling  all  three? 

AUDE. 
It  would  be  still  more  wonderful. 


THE  SWALLOW. 
But  you  like  each  other  ? 


AUDE. 
Very  much.     She  charms  and  spoils  me. 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  17 

THE  SWALLOW. 

Aude,  let   me   go  now.     Herbert   is   waiting   for 
me. 

[Her  friend  holds  her  bach  in  a  mysterious 
manner,  with  a  gentleness  almost  oppressive, 
and  a  smile  sharpening  into  raillery. 

AUDE. 

1  He  waits  for  you  at  the  fountain  of  The  Truth  of 
Love,  or  in  the  lair  of  Old  Mandrague,  or  under  the 
trellis  of  Gloriande.  These  forsaken  gardens  must  be 
welcome  to  those  who  love.  You  have  not  yet  told 
me  what  love  is.  You  must  tell  me,  Clariel,  you  who 
know.  Herbert  will  stay  there.  He  will  not  go 
away ;  he  is  finishing  his  task  with  his  little  knife ; 
then  he  will  wind  the  honeysuckle  around  the  carved 
wand.  Just  now  you  were  talking  to  me,  yet  listen- 
ing only  for  him.  It  almost  seems  as  if  you  could  feel 
him  with  your  cheek  that  is  turned  towards  the  garden. 
The  whole  of  your  soul  is  ou  that  half  of  your  face. 
You  are  like  those  smooth  peaches  of  Stanwick,  you 
know,  those  nectarines,  as  Miss  Turner  used  to  call 
them,  which  of  their  own  accord  break  in  two.  You 
feel  him  with  this  cheek  and  this  shoulder,  and  your 


,g  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

heart  beats  on  the  right  side,  now.    Are  you  blushing, 
or  is  it  the  light  ? 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Audain ! 

[She  t»  suffused  with  blushes,  and,  with  a  shame- 
faced grace,  seizes  the  hand  of  her  companion 
and  presses  it  against  her  cheek. 

AUDE. 
Tell  me  what  it  is,  Clariel. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
I  will  tell  you.  [She  lingers,  musing. 

ATJDE. 
Well? 

THE  SWALLOW. 
I  will  tell  you. 

[She  searches  for  words,  adorably  abashed,  like  a 
schoolgirl  before  the  examiner. 

AUDE. 
Now  you  have  a  face  like  a  rose, 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ig 

THE  SWALLOW. 

Ah !  listen.  I  awake  and  feel  that  my  face  is  made 
of  a  rose,  and  that  the  dawn  is  scarcely  less  new  than 
myself. 

AUDE. 
And  then  ? 

THE  SWALLOW. 

Then  I  sit  on  the  bed,  and  I  stay  there  properly, 
as  at  the  beginning  of  a  made-up  story.  And  the 
mere  thought  that  the  days  have  lengthened  by  five 
hours  fills  me  with  the  exhilaration  of  never  dying, 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  my  life  is  slipping  away,  I 
know  not  where,  aud  that  another  life,  more  precious, 
is  flowing  continuously  towards  me,  from  I  know  not 
whence ;  and  that  my  soul  is  changing  into  another 
soul  that  is  more  mine  than  mine  own  ;  and  I  crave, 
I  crave  something  and  I  know  not  what,  and  I  have 
no  savour  in  my  mouth,  yet  I  feel  I  have  in  me  a 
fragrance  far  more  exquisite  than  the  fragrance  of  the 
air  and  of  all  things  that  are  good  in  the  world.  .  .  . 
[She  breaks  off  and  closes  her  eyes  in  childish 
bewilderment, 

AUDE. 
And  then  ? 


20  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  i 

THE  SWALLOW. 

Then  .  .  .  [And  quickly  she  murmurs]  I  kiss  my 
arms. 

AUDE. 

Little  sweet!     But  there  must  be   still  another 
sort  of  love  ? 

[HELISSENT  DE  LA  COLDRE    bursts    in  like   a 
whirlwind. 

HELISSENT. 

Ha,  ha !     Are  you  two  discoursing  upon  love  ? 
[The  two  girls  begin  to  lavgh  as  if  in  a  happy 
mood. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

It  is  Aude !  She  is  putting  me  through  an 
examination,  and  proceeds  by  distinctions. 

AUDE. 

Learn,  then,  sister-in-law,  that  not  only  is  the 
swallow  a  blushing  love  "  in  scarlet  clad  from  cap  to 
toe,"  as  in  the  saying  of  Bertrande  Baleste,  known 
as  Le  Milhoun,  but  that  shortly  she  will  build  her 
nest  elsewhere  and  the  very  fair  swain  awaits  her 


ACT  t  TUB  HONEYSUCKLE  1C 

below  near  the  clump  of  hazel  tree?,  where,  naturally, 
he  is  working  on  the  famous  wand  with  "  the  knife 
of  J cannot." 

THE  SWALLOW. 
It  is  not  true.     She  is  jesting.     Do  not  believe  it. 

[She  laughs  and  reddens,  attempting  gracefully 
to  close  the  mocking  lips  of  her  companion. 

HELISSENT. 
And  yet  the  sky  is  rose-coloured,  and  so  are  you. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

What  is  awaiting  me,  alas  !  beyond  the  shower,  is 
the  maternal  storm.  I  am  off  on  the  wing  of  the 
wind.  Farewell !  Farewell ! 

[Lightsome  and  fleet,  THE  SWALLOW  crosses  the 
vestibule,  runs  down  the  steps,  turning  her 
pretty  face  as  she  retreats. 

A  DDE. 
Come  back  quickly,  Clariel. 


THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

THE  SWALLOW. 


Farewell ! 


[The  two  sisters-in-law  follow  her  with  their  gaze 
into  the  maze  of  box. 

HELISSENT. 
Good-bye ! 

[The  sky  is  all  rose-coloured  above  the  hedge  oj 
hornbeam.  One  can  see  through  the  thick 
foliage  the  glow  in]the  western  sky. 

What  a  fresh  little  creature !  She  almost  seems  to 
have  wings  !  When  she  turned  her  head,  would  one 
not  have  said  she  had  in  the  corner  of  her  lips  a 
thread  of  joy,  as  a  bird  carries  in  its  beak  a  straw  or 
a  wisp  of  white  flax  ? 

[HELISSENT  puts  one  arm  round  AUDK'S  waist. 
AUDE  still  looks  in  the  direction  her  friend 
took,  and  lifts  her  hand  as  if  she  caught 
sight  of  her  at  the  end  of  the  terrace  and 
greeted  her  anew. 

AUDB. 

Happiness !     Happiness ! 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  93 

[She  sighs   that  word  almost  in  her  heart  as 

if  poised  on  the  border  of  the  imaginary  land 

where  CLARIBL  is  about  to  live  out  her  fairy 

tale. 

[HELISSENT  calls  her,  as  if  she  wished  to  say  some- 
thing solemn  to  her,  and  hesitates. 

HELISSENT. 
Aude  .  .  . 

AUDE. 

I  have  never  felt  the  spring  as  I  feel  it  this  year . 
And  you,  Helissent?  It  is  perhaps  the  renewed 
flowering  of  the  honeysuckle  manifesting  itself  in 
the  untamed  creature  I  used  to  be.  ...  In  the  morn- 
ing, when  I  stretch  myself,  half  asleep,  I  feel  as  if 
one  of  my  arms  were  as  long  as  a  stone  staircase,  the 
other  like  a  lane  of  yew  trees,  and  that  in  one  hand, 
far  away,  I  hold  a  goddess  clad  in  moss,  and  in  the 
other  a  basin  filled  with  water-lilies. 

HELISSENT. 
Aude  .  .  . 

AUDE. 
Only  think ;  the   days   have   lengthened    by   five 


24  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  i 

hours,  and  in  a  few  weeks  the  daylight  will  last  until 
nine  o'clock.  Look  at  the  colouring  of  the  sky.  It  is 
too  lovely.  Now  the  day  breaks  suddenly  and  falls 
like  a  mellow  fruit  at  Clariel's  feet :  she  picks  it  up, 
bites  into  it,  and  leaves  the  other  half  for  ... 

HEUSSENT. 

Listen,  Aude.    I  must  tell  you.     Your  mother  is 
here. 

[The  dreamer  starts  and  disengages  herself  from 
the  arms  of  her  sister-in-law,  unable  to  corttrol 
her  emotion. 

AUDE. 
What  do  you  say  ?     Who  is  here  ? 

HELISSENT. 
Your  mother. 

AUDE. 
My  mother  ? 

HELISSENT. 


AUDE. 
She  has  come !     When  ? 


ACt  1  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  25 

HELISSENT. 

This  instant. 

AUDE. 
Without  giving  us  warning. 

HELISSENT. 

I  imagine  it  is  a  surprise  contrive J  by  Ivain  to  pre- 
cipitate events.  I  know  he  went  to  meet  her  at  La 
Brouste,  and  brought  her  back  himself. 

AUDE. 
Is  she  alone  ? 

HELISSENT. 
I  hardly  think  so. 

AUDE. 
With  that  man  ? 

HELISSENT. 

I  have  not  seen  either  of  them.  Ivain  came  up  to 
fetch  me.  His  anguish  was  such  that  I  felt  sorry  for 
him.  You  know  how  easily  he  becomes  distracted 
when  he  is  faced  by  the  inevitable.  He  begged  me  to 
come  and  tell  you. 


26  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  i 

AUDB. 

But  Monsieur  Dagon  ? 

HELISSENT. 

I  could  not  quite  gather.  Ivain  avoided  all  ques- 
tions and  stammered.  But  it  is  most  probable  Mon- 
sieur Dagon  has  come  too,  because,  for  your  mother, 
the  important  point  is  to  be  received  here  with  her 
husband. 

AUUE. 
And  you  think  he  is  already  in  the  house  ? 

HELISSENT. 

If  he  is  not  already  here,  he  cannot  be  far  away.  It 
will  not  be  long  before  we  know.  It  is  a  surprise,  I 
tell  you.  Your  mother,  by  arrangement  with  Ivain, 
comes  in  person  to  plead  her  cause,  to  force  our  assent. 

AUDE. 
But  it  is  incredible. 

HELISSENT. 
It  was  to  be  expected.     Your  brother  cannot  live 


ACt  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  tj 

longer,  separated  from  her.  He  is  like  a  child  not 
yet  weaned.  For  some  time  past  he  has  done  nothing 
but  sigh  and  moan.  You  know  it  well.  And  now 
that  the  ruins  are  being  repaired  and  the  old  hearth 
rekindled,  it  seems  to  both  of  them  that  the  hour  for 
re-establishing  the  sanctity  of  family  ties  has  dawned 
at  last. 

AUDE. 

And  you  consent  ?  It  is  with  your  fortune  that 
all  is  being  done.  Are  you  not  the  mistress  here  ? 

HELISSENT. 

That  is  somewhat  crudely  put,  Aude.  A  stranger 
rather. 

AUDE. 

My  presentiment  was  mistaken,  perhaps  ?  It  never 
is  mistaken.  I  had  left  my  heart  here,  my  heart  in 
mourning,  and  my  real  life ;  but  truly,  I  never 
wished  to  come  and  find  them  again,  for  fear  of 
sinning  sooner  or  later  against  both.  The  ashes  that 
are  so  dear  to  me  will  not  bear  being  disturbed.  That 
is  why  I  did  not  ask  you.  I  did  not  urge  you  to  give 
us  back  these  walk,  raised  seemingly  but  to  receive  a 
merciless  guest.  The  greatest  atrocity  had  already 


28  TUB  HOtiEYSUCKLB  ACT  1 

been  endured,  the  past  had  already  assumed  its 
obdurate  aspect,  and  the  enigma  had  remained  buried 
in  the  stone. 

HELISSENT. 

But,  Aude,  your  brother  thought  of  nothing  else. 
I  knew  that  the  repurchase  was  a  tacit  convention  in 
the  marriage  contract,  that  it  was  more  than  a  desire, 
more  than  a  promise.  And  you  know  it.  You  were 
speaking  a  moment  ago  of  your  awakening  to  the 
vision  of  arches  and  marble  basins.  Ivain,  who  is 
only  a  beautiful  child,  born  of  music,  seemed  to  have 
left  all  his  resonance  here,  and  to  be  capable  only  of 
finding  it  again  in  this,  his  birthplace,  where  he 
attuned  his  dreams  to  the  notes  of  his  organ.  For 
all  you  de  la  Coldres  this  domain  is  a  sort  of  mys- 
terious inheritance,  I  know  not  what,  almost  an 
emblem  of  your  destinies.  In  bringing  Ivain  home 
I  had  the  impression  of  restoring  him  to  himself. 
And  added  to  my  compliance  was  some  unknown 
desire  for  novelty,  and  an  unknown  hope  of  refreshing 
my  love  and  of  seeing  that  child  become  still  more 
beautiful.  Do  you  understand  ? 

AUDE. 
I  understand.     But  it  is  no  longer  sufficient  to  be 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  29 

beautiful.  Can  you  imagine,  Helissent,  that  I  re- 
proach you  with  your  generosity?  Why,  you  also 
gave  me  back  to  myself.  The  time  passed  elsewhere, 
after  my  father's  death,  after  our  ruin,  after  that 
dreadful  incident,  seems  to  me  to-day  featureless, 
like  some  worn  effigy  that  I  have  never  known  and 
could  not  recognize.  If  I  had  not  come  back,  per- 
haps I  would  have  gone  into  a  convent,  but  I  am 
here,  as  if  I  had  taken  the  veil,  pronounced  my  vows. 
Never  have  I  felt  so  absolutely  alone,  nor  so  abso- 
lutely alive.  In  the  cloister  I  should  have  been 
alone  with  my  God  ;  here  I  am  alone  with  a  great 
memory.  It  is  my  memory  that  creates  my  reli- 
gious life.  And  not  only  do  I  remember,  but  some 
one  in  me  remembers.  We  are  two  that  live  and 
remember  together. 

HELISSENT. 
You  dishearten  me.    Life  is  made  of  forgetfulness. 

AUDE. 
It  is  not  true. 

HEUSSEXT. 

You  have  a  passion  for  suffering — for  tormenting 
yourself. 


30  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

AuDE. 

No.     Is  it  my  fault  if  the  keeping  of  a  sorrow  has 
been  entrusted  to  me,  a  wound  to  bear  in  my  breast  ? 

HELISSENT. 
Let  us  cure  you. 

AUDE. 
By  what  ?     My  blood  and  my  tears  are  waiting. 

HELISSENT. 
By  life  itself,  by  the  unexpected,  by  the  unknown. 

AUDE. 
By  the  one  who  will  cross  this  threshold  ? 

HELISSENT. 

"Who  knows?    One  must  continually  offer  oneself 
to  one's  destiny. 

AUDE. 
I  press  mine  close  to  me  to  smother  it. 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  31 

HELISSEITT. 
Two  arms  are  not  sufficient, 

AUDE. 
But  one  heart  is. 

HELISSENT. 
To  bleed. 

AUDE. 

I  can  let  mine  bleed  a  long  time  before  the  last 
drop  oozes  from  it. 

HELISSEXT. 

Aude,  you  are  ill  with  the  springtime.     I  know 
that  illness. 

AUDE. 

My    illness    is    of    a    season    unknown   to    you, 
Helissent. 

HELISSENT. 

You  do  not  know  yourself  what  you  mean  or  what 
you  want. 

AUDE* 
I  want  to  go  away. 


32  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  i 

HELISSENT. 
But  what  folly ! 

AUDE. 

I  will  not  stay  here. 

HELISSENT. 
At  least,  wait.     We  shall  see. 

AUDE. 
See,  see  !     That  is  just  what  I  will  not  do. 

HELISSENT. 
But  why  ? 

AUDE. 

Do  you  not  feel  ?  It  seems  as  if  the  whole  house 
is  holding  its  breath.  It  no  longer  breathes.  You 
do  not  feel  it  ?  And  this  evening  its  soul  born  once 
more  cannot  commune  in  the  softness  of  the  lamp- 
light ;  it  must  stay  in  the  shadowed  corners. 
Helissent,  Helissent,  I  leave  you  the  guest.  I  leave 
him  to  you  and  to  my  brother,  who  knows  forget- 
fulness.  As  for  me,  I  am  going  away.  To-night 
I  shall  seek  shelter  with  the  Swallow.  Then  I  shall 
follow  my  vocation. 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  33 

HELISSENT. 

What  do  you  want    to    do,   Aude  ?     Can   I   do 
nothing  for  you  ? 

AUDE. 

Should  you  know  how  to  fall,  with  your  face  to 
the  earth  ? 

HELISSENT. 
Really,  you  seem  beyond  yourself. 

AUDE. 
It  is  true.     Beyond  myself  and  beyond  all  things. 

HELISSENT. 
But,  at  least,  speak.     What  do  you  know  ? 

AUDE. 
I  know  nothing,  and  I  divine  all. 

HELISSENT. 
Whence  comes  this  implacable  rancour  ? 

AUDE. 
Ask  the  coming  guest. 


34  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

HELISSENT. 

I  only  once  saw  your  mother,  at  church,  on  the 
day  of  my  wedding.  But  I  have  never  seen  that 
man. 

AUDB. 
You  will  see  him. 

HELISSENT. 
Was  he  not  your  father's  best  friend  ? 

AUDE. 

So  much  so  that  he  only  married  the  widow  to 
keep  of  the  dead  a  living  remembrance. 

HELISSENT. 

You  are  too  hard.  You  do  not  forgive  him  for 
having  consoled  her  ? 

AUDE. 

Do  you  not  feel  that  that  word  severs  life  ?  You 
are  more  cruel  than  7  am  hard. 

HELISSENT. 
But  what  is  he  like  ? 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  35 

AUDK. 
Gentle. 

[She  says  this  with  a  secret  accent  of  irony,  repul- 
sion and  mystery.  Now,  the  sisters-in-law 
have  drawn  nearer  one  another,  speak  in 
lowered  tones,  in  a  contrast  of  confidence  and 
defiance,  with  some  hesitation  before  certain 
questions,  certain  answers  with  obscure  mean- 
ings, sudden  heart-beatings,  almost  violent 
glances  quickly  suppressed  under  the  cautious 
eyelids. 

HELISSENT. 
How? 

AUDE. 

Gentle  as  one  who  meditates  too  much  and  does 
wrong  only  to  tempt  himself  so  as  to  become  some  one 
else. 

HELISSENT. 
I  know  that  sort. 

AUDE. 

He  seemed  above  all  things,  and  capable  of  all 
things. 


36  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

HELISSENT. 
Even  great  ? 

AUDE. 
Perhaps.     He  is  a  weaver  of  dreams. 

HELISSENT. 
He  gave  you  some. 

AUDE. 
He  knew  how  to  disarm  force  and  quell  it. 

HELISSENT. 
With  magnetic  hands  ? 

AUDE. 
With  the  hands  of  a  woman. 

HELISSENT. 
Beautiful  ? 

AUDE. 
With  a  poisoner's  hands. 

HELISSENT. 
Ah  !  [A  h*ief  pause.]  What  are  they  like  ? 


ACT  i  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  3? 

AUDE. 

Have  you  ever  noticed  that  engraving  I  have  in 
my  room  ? 

HELISSENT. 
Which  one  ? 

AUDE. 

The  one  in  which  the  Duchess  of  Bisceglia  is  wash- 
ing her  hands. 

HELISSENT. 
I  do  not  remember  it. 

AUDE. 

Her  arms  bared  to  the  elbow,  she  is  washing  her 
hands  in  a  copper  bowl,  after  having  prepared  the 
potion  for  Alfonso.  Behind  her  head  one  sees  re- 
flected in  a  round  mirror  the  sick  husband,  too  young, 
too  frail,  too  beautiful,  like  Ivain,  who  is  made  to  walk 
on  crutches  so  as  to  hasten  the  effect  of  the  poison. 

HELISSENT. 
Aude,  how  strange  you  are  ! 

AUDE. 
I   imagine  I  have  seen  in  the  depth  of  another 


38  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  i 

mirror  those  other  two  hands,  as  dexterous  and  as 
pale,  emerging  from  the  turned-back  sleeves,  washing 
in  a  basin,  with  the  same  gesture. 

HELISSENT. 
You  frighten  me,  Aude.     You  are  too  strange. 

AUDE. 
It  is  a  dream  I  have  dreamt. 

HELISSENT. 

The  more  I  look  at  you,  the  more  unfathomable 
you  seem. 

AUDE. 
Yet  I  am  far  clearer  than  you. 

HELISSENT. 

But  perhaps  less  distant  from  me  than  I  am  from 
myself. 

AUDE. 
You,  you  are  a  woman. 

HELISSENT. 
You,  you  wear  the  veil. 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  39 

AUDX. 

The  past  is  my  cloister. 

HELISSENT. 

"When  I  was  a  girl  I  was  a  sort  of  foolish  child, 
shaken  and  terrified  by  dreams,  and  my  belief  was 
that  from  one  dream  alone  one  could  suddenly  fall 
ill  and  die. 

AUDB. 

My  dream  does  not  move  from  the  depth  of  this 
mirror  of  which  I  have  spoken. 

HELISSEKT. 
And  where  is  this  mirror  ? 

AUDE. 

At  the  end  of  the  glass-panelled  gallery,  on  the 
chimney-piece,  in  the  yellow  drawing-room  opposite  the 
door  giving  into  the  adjoining  room,  in  which  is  a 
deserted  bed,  between  a  low  bookcase  and  a  worn  fald- 
stool, that  creak  when  one  opens  the  shutters  of  the 
curtainless  windows. 

[She  has  spoken  in    a    subdued   tone,   scarcely 
audible,  gazing  straight  before  tier. 


40  THE  HOXEYSUCKLB  ACT  i 

HELISSBNT. 
So  speak  seers. 

AUDE, 
I  really  do  see. 

HELISSENT. 
You  seem  ill,  my  sweet. 

AUDE. 

I  am  not  sweet.  Why  do  you  caress  me  in  this 
way  ? 

HELISSENT. 

You  fill  me  with  compassion.  Wait,  let  me  put 
my  hand  through  your  hair  to  find  your  suffering. 

AUDE. 

Look,  I  let  my  hands  drop  by  the  side  of  my  dress. 
Do  you  see  ? 

HELISSENT. 

You  mistrust  me.  You  hate  me,  perhaps.  I  feel 
it.  But  I  love  you,  and  I  am  sad  at  the  thought  of 
your  unhappiness,  little  sister. 

AUDE. 
If  you  were  ever  to  discover  my  wound,  I  think  it 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  4! 

would  please  you  to  dig  your  pink  nails  into  it,  so  as 
to  hurt  me. 

HELISSENT. 
You  think  so. 

AUDE. 

I  feel  you  to  be  alert,  tense,  your  nostrils  quivering 
as  if  you  were  breathing  in  the  air  that  bitter  fragrance 
you  must  love. 

HELISSENT. 
The  same  bitter  fragrance  is  here  in  every  alley. 

AUDE. 
The  fragrance  of  present  and  past  tears. 

[I VAIN  comes  in,  beseeching  and  full  of  anguish. 

IVAIX. 

Well  ?  I  was  waiting  for  you  to  come  up  again, 
Helissent.  I  was  in  torture.  What  does  Aude  say  ? 

HELISSENT. 
Look  at  her. 

I  VAIN. 

Ah,  nothing  good.  Little  sister,  fierce  little  sister, 
why  do  you  frown  ?  How  can  you  be  so  harsh,  you 


4 a  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

who  are  so  gentle  when  you  like  ?    I  beg  of  you,  I 
beg  of  you. 

AUDB. 
All  has  been  said. 

IVAI5. 

Do  you  wish  me  to  kneel  to  you  ? 

[HELISSENT  sits  down,  bending  forward,  her  chin 
resting  on  the  back  of  her  hand,  her  elbow  on 
her  knee,  and  she  stays  there,  her  eyes  staring, 
far  brain  active  beneath  her  impenetrable 
brow. 

AUDB. 

No,  Ivain,  do  not  speak  to  me  as  though  I  were  a 
capricious  child.  And  speak  like  a  man  yourself.  For 
a  moment  throw  aside  your  coaxing  manner.  This  is 
no  occasion  to  try  to  make  me  smile  ;  evasion  is  only 
puerile  contrivance.  You  brought  our  mother  here 
without  warning  any  one. 

IVAIN. 

I  did  not  think  the  surprise  would  so  displease 
you. 

A  DDE. 

Do  not  use  mundane  phrases.     They  are  out  of 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  4$ 

place.  It  is  not  a  question  here  of  either  decorum  or 
custom.  Truth  does  not  change — at  least,  mine  does 
not. 

IVAIN. 

But  this  is  not  a  question  of  a  stranger.  It  is  the 
question  of  my  mother,  who  is  also  yours. 

AUDE. 
And  of  her  husband,  I  believe. 

IVAIN. 
But  ... 

AUDE. 
Answer  me  frankly.     You  have  brought  him  too  ? 

IVAIN. 

Not  yet  into  our  house. 

AUDE. 

Where  then?  Why  do  you  hesitate?  Perhaps 
you  are  waiting  for  night,  to  usher  him  stealthily  into 
the  house  that  he  knows  so  well.  Is  there  still  too 
much  light  ?  And  which  room  is  allotted  to  him  ? 
The  one  at  the  end  of  the  glass-panelled  gallery  ?  It 


44  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  Act  i 

seemed  to  me  I  heard  the  door  creak  by  itself  on  its 
hinges,  the  windows  burst  open  of  themselves,  some 
one  turn  the  mattresses  and  shake  the  counterpanes. 

IVAIN. 

Aude!    Aude! 

AUDE. 

It  is  not  true  ?  Tell  me  it  is  not  true !  And  yet 
the  whole  night  long  I  heard  rappiugs,  as  in  church 
during  the  gloomy  offices  of  Holy  Week.  Did  not 
you? 

IVAIN. 
Ah,  you  are  mad ! 

AUDE. 
You  would  have  been  terrified. 

IVAIN. 

What  do  you  wish,  then  ?  Tell  us,  what  must  we 
do  to  pacify  you  ? 

AUDE. 

Do  not  despair  like  this.  I  have  nothing  to  wish, 
nothing  to  impose.  Helissent  is  the  only  one  to  do 
that.  I  am  nothing.  Are  you  not  all  of  the  same 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  45 

mind  ?  I  wish  to  humble  myself.  I  crave  your 
pax-don  for  having  such  a  troublesome  memory.  Am 
I  threatening  to  lay  myself  across  the  threshold,  to 
bar  the  entrance,  or  to  force  any  one  to  pass  over  my 
body  ?  I  have  already  told  you  I  am  going  away.  I 
am  ridding  you  of  my  presence.  The  twilight  is 
beautiful,  and  out  there  are  some  lanes  I  have  not  yet 
revisited.  .  .  . 

IVAIN. 

What  madness  is  in  you  ?  You  refuse  to  see  your 
mother,  her  at  least,  her  alone !  Do  you  think  you 
have  not  made  her  cry  enough  already  ? 

AUDE. 

It  is  true.  I  am  the  wicked  daughter.  You  are 
the  good  son. 

[Her  deep  anguish  weakens  her  voice,  even  in  its 
irony. 

IVAIN. 

Memory  for  memory,  mine  goes  further  back.  Love 
does  not  judge.  I,  who  am  the  son  of  her  flesh,  would 
not  dare  judge  her,  or  pronounce  a  doubting  word 
against  any  one  of  her  actions.  If  I  look  at  her,  my 
heart  melts. 


46  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

AUDE. 
Mine  is  oppressed. 

IVAIN. 
In  short,  you  wish  to  prevent  her  living  ? 

AUDE. 

I  have  lived  and  do  live,  in  death.  I  did  not  know 
it  to  be  so  radiant. 

IVAIN. 

Child !  You  who  strike  and  condemn,  what  do  you 
know  of  life  ?  It  is  less  radiant,  no  doubt,  but  far 
more  difficult. 

AUDE. 

No  more  so  than  a  choral  or  a  fugue  for  you.  Now 
you  have  succeeded  in  making  me  smile,  and  have 
taken  away  all  my  desire  to  cry.  Your  old  Bergamo 
organ  contains  but  flute-like  sounds  even  for  "  the 
grave,  deep  tones."  Perhaps  you  will  have  to  add 
another  register.  May  God  keep  you,  blind  brother 
of  mine,  and  may  Helissent  lead  you  by  the  hand 
through  thej  bitter  fragrance  of  these  alleys.  I  will 
pray  for  you.  I  wish  only  to  be  alone,  so  as  to  find 


ACT  i  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  47 

pity  for  myself,  and  for  you,  and  for  that  one  whom 
I  have  disowned,  and  for  the  penitent  pilgrim  ... 
[At  this  moment  LAURENCE  DAGON  appears  on 
the  threshold,  absolutely  ghastly.     HELISSENT 
catches  sight  of  her  first ;  she  gets  up  and  takes 
a  few  steps  towards  her,  ivith  a  welcoming 
expression. 

HELISSENT. 
Ah !  .  .  .  [I VAIN  turns  round,  distraught. 

IVAIN. 
Oh,  Mother! 

[He  goes  towards  her  with  the  most  tender  solicitude. 
Come,  come,  dearest,  dearest  Mother.  Do  you  feel  a 
little  better  ?  Tell  me ! 

[AuDE  remains  standing,  unable  to  move.  Her 
emotion  is  revealed  by  the  manifest  trembling 
of  her  whole  body. 

HELISSENT. 
You  are  not  well.     I  beg  of  you,  sit  down. 

LAURENCE. 

Thank   you.     Please  forgive  me.     This  is   to  be 
only  a  brief  visit. 


48  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

HELISSENT. 
That  would  grieve  me. 

[Her  amiability  is  measured  and  circumspect ;  but 
the  three  creatures  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood 
are  carried  away  in  a  turmoil  of  anguish  that 
their  breathing  itself  seems  to  hasten.  The 
Jirst  words  that  they  exchange  are  devoid  of 
all  life,  of  all  weight,  and  are  uncertain  ;  but 
the  mother's  mouth  seems  all  swollen  like  some 
great  vein  from  the  heart,  which  suddenly 
colours  with  suffering  all  the  words  she  speaks 
to  her  motionless  daughter. 

LAURENCE. 
Aude,  you  do  not  kiss  me  ? 

AUDE. 

Forgive  me,  Mother,  if  I  cause  you   sorrow.     I 
would  do  everything  to  avoid  this  moment. 

[She  is  bloodless,  staggering,  and  her  poor  chin 
trembles  at  each  syllable.  The  mother  gazes 
at  her  from  head  to  foot  with  a  look  which 
sllew  from  her  eyes  with  the  power  of  a 


ACT  i  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  49 

spring    which,    lost    beneath    the    earth,    is 
suddenly  fcrmsd  again  and  reopened. 

LAURENCE. 
You  will  not  ? 

AUDE. 

Perhaps  you  heard  some  of  rny  words  as  you  came 
in? 

LAURENCE. 

I  heard  nothing  but  the  beatings  of  my  heart,  my 
poor  child. 

AUDE. 
Mine  is  so  heavy,  I  can  bear  it  no  longer. 

LAURENCE. 

But  how  you  have  grown !     Let  me  look  at  you. 
It  seems  to  me  I  did  not  make  you  thus. 

[She  comes  nearer  and  watches  her  with  an  almost 
awe-struck  attention. 

Aude!  Isityou,Audain?  You  have  so  changed  in 
these  few  years.  But  you  are  beautiful,  you  are 
perhaps  more  beautiful.  Your  eyes  are  larger,  much 
larger.  I  do  not  know  what  used  to  shine  round 


D 


50  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  i 

their  pupils,  like  iron  dust  round  a  magnet.  They 
contain  too  much  sorrow,  far  too  much;  and  the 
determination  not  to  weep,  and  the  obstinacy  of 
suffering.  Do  not  turn  them  from  me.  Look  at  me. 
Your  eyebrows  are  thicker.  Your  hair  is  darker,  and 
you  used  not  to  wear  it  like  that.  Ah  1  I  remember 
the  way  it  separated  there  on  your  right  temple. 
You  hold  yourself  differently,  you  have  a  different 
way  of  standing.  .  .  .  There  is  in  you  a  strength  I 
did  not  give  you.  You  are  nineteen,  and  it  seems  as 
if  all  these  years  I  had  not  known  you.  Oh !  let  me 
have  you  once  more  within  me.  Let  me  bear  you 
again,  Audain ! 

[Her  arms   are  thrown   out   in  an   irresistible 
movement. 

AUDE. 
Mother,  it  must  not  be ! 

LAURENCE. 
Must  not  ? 

AUDE. 
My  thoughts  are  against  you. 

LAURENCE. 
You  disown  me  ? 


AOT  i  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  51 

AUDE. 

Oh,  pity  me,  I  do  not  know.  I  know  nothing.  I 
am  suffering. 

LAURENCE. 

I  will  not  let  you  suffer  any  more.  I  have  only 
tenderness  for  you.  I  am  here  to  win  you  back. 

AUDE. 
Everything  about  you  breaks  my  heart. 

LAURENCE. 

My  poor,  poor  little  one.  How  can  such  words 
come  from  your  human  heart  ? 

AUDE. 

I  must  have  found  the  courage  to  say  it  from  the 
depth  where  one  no  longer  even  hears  the  beating  of 
one's  bleeding  heart. 

LAURENCE. 

What  a  voice!  It  is  not  the  voice  I  gave  you. 
Where  does  it  come  from  ?  Deeper  than  the  heart, 
that  I  know.  Beneath  the  great  root  of  life,  which 


52  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

cannot  be  torn  out  without  destroying  everything. 
One  feels  more  blood  in  it  than  tears.  But  it  is  our 
own  blood  which,  the  more  it  rankles  against  us,  the 
more  we  are  tormented. 

AUDB. 

I  beg  you,  I  beseech  you,  let  me  go  away.  I  fear 
that  suddenly  the  strength  will  fail  me  to  stifle  what 
is  rising,  what  is  clamouring  within  me. 

LAURENCE. 

Well,  then,  tear  me  to  pieces.  I  bear  you  like  a 
burning  scar  ;  but  tear  me,  rend  me  once  more,  if 
you  must  be  born  of  me  a  second  time — born  of  my 
great  suffering. 

AUDE. 

Of  mine,  of  mine  alone  am  I  born  again.  And  by 
what  effort,  and  with  what  soul,  you  can  never  know. 

LAURENCE. 
That  soul  you  have  wrought  is  my  terror. 

AUDE. 
If  you  knew  .  .  . 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  53 

LAURENCE. 

"Well,  let  me  know.  I  am  here  to  listen,  to  be 
questioned,  to  answer.  I  am  here,  that  my  errors 
may  be  disclosed  to  me,  that  I  may  be  shown  my 
shame,  face  to  face.  I  have  no  more  pride.  You 
see,  I  do  not  hesitate  before  the  humiliation  of 
coming  here  like  an  intruder,  an  importunate 
visitor.  .  .  . 

IVAIN. 
Mother ! 

LAURENCE. 

It  is  so.  My  visit  was  not  announced.  I  was 
expected  and  desired  only  by  this  poor  child,  who 
perhaps  still  remembers  having  slept  on  my  knees. 

IVAIN. 

That  and  all  other  good  things,  and  nothing  else, 
now  and  always. 

[He  is  standing  rather  in  the  background,  leaning 
on  a  table,  and  pale  with  the  continual  waves 
of  emotion  that  shake  him. 

[Illumed  for  one  instant  by  that  act  offaith,rapidly 
the  mother  puts  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  her 


54  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

breast,  her  two  sides,  and  finally  to  her  lips; 
then  she  extends  it  to  her  son,  and  turns 
towards  him  as  if  she  wished  to  unite  the  sign 
of  the  cross  to  a  sign  of  love. 
[The  daughter-in-law  has  remained  aloof  under 
one  of  the  arches  of  the  vestibule.  She  is 
seated  near  a  laurel  bush  trimmed  into  a 
round  shape,  and  looks  from  time  to  time  at 
the  purple  twilight  ebbing  on  the  squared 
garden,  where  the  bronze  of  the  yew  trees 
and  the  hornbeam  becomes  darker  and 
darker. 

LAURENCE. 

Look,  he  pardons  me,  if  I  am  to  blame.  He  does 
not  repulse  me ;  he  accepts  me,  absolves  me.  And 
his  wife  wishes  to  share  his  feeling  and  his  thought, 
seems  to  consent  with  him.  I  am  without  pride. 
You  see  ?  Pride  has  no  part  in  my  life.  I  can  no 
longer  live  in  this  grief  which  has  an  air  of  shame,  in 
this  sort  of  inexorable  banishment  which  severs  me 
from  my  own  soul.  Now  it  is  you  who  banish  me, 
only  you.  You  alone  I  see  raised  against  me,  armed 
against  me,  determined  to  renounce  me.  .  .  . 

AUDE. 
Oh,  do  not  say  that. 


ACT  i  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  55 

LAURENCE. 

I  might  say,  "  Let  blood  call  to  blood."  But  no, 
I  do  not  speak  as  a  mother.  I  speak  as  a  woman. 
To  be  a  mother,  one  needs  a  terrible  power.  I  speak 
to  you  as  a  poor  woman ;  to  you,  who  have  the 
features  of  a  creature  filled  with  passion  and  know- 
ledge, to  that  face  which,  a  while  ago,  was  framed  to 
the  chin  in  smooth  bands  of  hair  like  a  little  tender 
almond  in  its  cleft  shell,  here  between  my  two 
hands.  .  .  . 

AUDB. 
I  have  worshipped  each  vein  of  your  hands. 

LAURENCE. 

Are  they  now  so  contaminated  that  they  are  not 
worthy  to  touch  you  ?  And  yet  I  would  wish  to  hold 
you,  as  then,  to  take  you  and  hold  you  in  front  of  my 
sorrow,  and  say,  "  Here  you  are.  At  last  I  have  you. 
I  am  looking  at  you.  This  evening  I  have  drawn  you 
from  the  shadow  which  has  hidden  you  for  so  long. 
Speak  to  me  without  hesitation,  without  pity.  I  am 
ready  to  take  the  worst  upon  myself.  Tell  me  the 
truth.  And  then,  if  it  is  necessary — good-bye  !  " 


56  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

AUDE. 

I  am  more  afraid  of  looking  at  you  than  of  dying. 
In  keeping  firm  before  you,  in  holding  myself  up  and 
listening  to  you,  I  consume  more  strength  than  I  have 
needed  during  these  three  years  to  uplift  my  despair. 
I  cannot  resist  that  which  trembles  round  your  lips. 
You  trouble  me.  I  cannot  see  you  trembling  without 
my  strength  failing. 

LAURENCE. 
Do  you  still  love  me,  then  ? 

[Her    cry    is    smothered,    wrenched  from    her 
deepest  self. 

AUDE. 

It  is  the  blood  repulsing  the  blood,  the  flesh  that 
fears  the  flesh.  This  is  so,  even  if  you  will  not  acknow- 
ledge it,  and  it  is  a  thing  that  is  mortal.  It  is  horrible 
to  realise  too  acutely  that  our  voices  pass  through  our 
teeth.  If  I  speak,  I  wound  ;  if  I  question,  I  torture. 
If  you  answer,  you  strike. 


LAURENCE. 
What  matters,  so  long  as  something  human  is  saved  ? 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  57 

Strength  is  not  animosity  ;  strength  is  love.     My  will 
to  love  is  everything.     My  errors  are  nothing. 

AUDE. 

May  God  hear  you  !  Then  why  do  you  require  to 
be  absolved  ?  All  is  obliterated,  all  is  forgotten.  No 
ashes  are  so  heavy  that  they  cannot  be  scattered  to 
the  four  winds.  You  are  saved,  saved  in  yourself, 
saved  in  your  .kinsmen.  Nothing  is  left  but  my 
suffering.  I  have  only  that.  Why  do  you  wish  to 
take  it  from  me  ?  You  could  not ;  no  one  could.  It 
is  part  of  my  bones  and  my  veins,  it  is  my  marrow  and 
my  pulse !  When  the  first  lamp  was  lit  on  the  first 
evening  we  came,  I  put  my  hand  against  the  flame  to 
see  it  through  my  reddened  palm.  It  was  there,  more 
mine  than  my  own  soul.  You  could  have  touched  it. 

LAURENCE. 

Your  suffering  is  inhuman.  It  bends  you  in  two. 
You  are  so  young. 

AUDE. 
Am  I  young  ? 

LAURENCE. 
So  alive,  and  you  pant  under  a  dismal  burden, 


58  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  i 

AUDE. 

And  who  would  bear  it  if  not  I  ?  Let  me  go  away, 
and  you  will  see  no  longer  either  the  bearer  or  the 
burden.  But  if  you  force  me  to  stay,  I  do  not  know 
what  I  shall  do.  I  know  that  I  should  only  do  some- 
thing wrong.  I  have  suffered  enough  to  dare  any- 
thing. 

LAURENCE. 

Ah  !  truly,  my  poor  brain  is  going.  It  is  a  law  of 
death,  then,  you  wish  to  impose  on  one  who  is  only 
guilty  of  continuing  to  live  ?  You  reproach  me  with 
the  shame  of  not  having  sacrificed  myself  on  the 
stake  ? 

AUDE. 

Neither  death  nor  shame  nor  even  all  these  words. 
One  does  not  dare  say  the  only  thing  that  matters ; 
and  conscience  is  a  wound  which  never  heals  and  yet 
does  not  kill.  I  have  begged  to  be  allowed  to  keep 
silence  and  go.  I  ask  but  that.  I  know  my  way. 
Imagine  that  I  have  already  stepped  into  the  realm 
of  night.  Suppose  that  I  am  going  to  my  nuptials. 
We  are  in  April  and  the  sky  will  be  filled  with  stars. 
But  do  not  ask  me  what  you  would  not  have  the 
strength  to  listen  to,  and  do  not  assume  that  I  shall 


ACT  i  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  59 

throw  my  heart  under  the  heel  of  the  loathsome  guest 
who  is  on  the  point  of  coming  back. 

LAURENCE. 
Ah  !  this  is  your  hatred !     It  chokes  you. 

AUDE. 
No.     I  thrive  on  it. 

LAURENCE. 

What  has  he  done  to  you  ?  You  cannot  forgive  hia 
having  stretched  out  his  hand  to  me  when  every  mis- 
fortune hemmed  me  in,  and  I  was  left  to  fight  alone, 
and  when  you,  in  your  desperation,  had  already  un- 
justly and  secretly  risen  against  me. 

AUDE. 

Desperation?  Yes,  you  are  right.  What  had  I 
become  ?  You  took  no  notice  of  me,  and  yet  my  eyes 
were  already  large  and  watchful  with  that  iron  dust 
round  the  pupils.  How  many  things  have  slipped 
from  your  memory ! 

LAURENCE. 
And  from  yours  ? 


-5 

60  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

AUDE. 

None,  none.  I  remember  everything.  And  I  am 
not  alone.  Another  remembers  within  me,  and  with 
what  clearness ! 

LAURENCE. 

You  do  not  remember,  then,  that  you  worshipped 
him? 

AUDE. 
Whom? 

LAURENCE. 
The  one  you  hate. 

AUDE. 
Ah !     How  can  you  say  that  ? 

LAURENCE. 

When  he  spoke,  you  hung  on  his  words.  When  he 
was  expected,  you  could  not  curb  your  impatience. 
You  watched  for  his  coming  from  the  top  of  the 
terraces.  You  ran  down  the  steps  to  meet  him. 

AUDE. 
It  is  not  true. 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  61 

[She  is  there,  close  to  the  worn  torso,  shaking  with 
anger,  fierce  and  dangerous. 

LAURENCE. 

You  knew  that  March  violets  pleased  him,  and  you 
spent  hours  picking  them  for  him  under  the  cypresses. 
You  used  to  put  some  between  the  pages  of  books, 
some  on  the  window-sills,  some  under  his  napkin  and 
even  in  his  gloves. 

AUDE. 
It  is  not  true,  it  is  not  true. 

LAURENCE. 

What!  Your  brother  is  here  and  can  vouch  for 
it.  Ivain  remembers,  no  doubt,  how  amused  he  was 
with  your  constant  theme,  which  ended  or  inter- 
rupted all  conversation :  "  And  now  tell  me  a 
wonderful  story." 

[She  tries  to  soften  her  expression  sufficiently  to 
feign  a  smile,  even  to  imitate  her  own  of  long 
ago,  hoping  to  disarm  AUDE.  But  the 
sombre  Jlame  which  had  suddenly  suffused 
the  adversary's  face  gives  place  to  a  deathly 
pallor. 


62  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

AUDB. 

It  is  not  true.     What  childishness ! 

[She  is  bent  rather  forward,  quivering,  an  evil 
light  in  her  eye,  with  that  fierce  look  that 
belongs  to  all  wounded  energy  on  the  point 
of  leaping  forth. 

[HELISSENT  has  risen  and  come  closer.  Atten- 
tive and  alone,  she  follows  the  painful 
struggle.  Something  keen  and  daring  seems 
to  sharpen  her  features,  as  if  -she  scented  in 
the  atmosphere  some  unknown  risk. 
[Night  is  falling  on  the  silent  garden,  in  which 
the  box  borders  are  already  as  black  as  inlaid 
ebony.  On  the  rigid  wall  of  hornbeam  a  long 
and  narrow  ray  of  sulphurous  light  still 
lingers.  A  large  bluish  cloud  hangs  in  the 
sky,  heavy  with  rain.  Dusk  slowly  invades 
the  room,  occupying  the  two  apses  and  filling 
the  niches.  Only  on  the  marble  statue  oj 
"Abundance"  a  veil  of  light  lingers  before 
breaking  away  to  return  to  the  West. 

Be  careful,  Mother.     Do  not  go  beyond  the  limits. 

You   can    lay   such  a  useless   trap  in  the   hope   of 

catching  me.     How  that  poor  smile  must  have  hurt 

you! 


ACT  i  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  63 

LAURENCE. 

Nothing  disarms  you,  not  even  the  lagt  drop  of 
tenderness  wrung  from  such  torture. 

AUDE. 

Ah  !  The  tenderness  !  You  fill  my  hands  with 
those  violets  so  that  I  should  hold  them  out  and  offer 
them  again,  and  cover  the  threshold  with  them? 
May  God  heal  my  hands  !  I  did  not  wish  this  even- 
ing to  pronounce  a  single  word  that  might  tempt 
the  shadow,  but  you  do  not  fear  to  tempt  it.  But 
if,  instead  of  the  guest  who  is  expected,  that  other 
ghost  should  suddenly  appear  from  below  the 
earth  .  .  . 

LAURENCE. 

Aude,  Aude,  you  frighten  me ! 

AUDE. 

Beware !  It  is  not  enough  to  leave  him  un- 
named. It  is  not  enough  to  pass  him  in  silence,  for 
him  not  to  exist,  for  him  not  to  be  present.  He 
still  lives  here ;  he  lives  here  always,  and  if  you  come, 
it  can  only  be  to  visit  him,  for  his  soul  fills  the  whole 
void. 


64  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

LAURENCE. 
Oh,  God ! 

AUDE. 

It  is  a  soul  that  still  retains  a  face.  Look  !  He 
has  again  taken  his  face  of  flesh,  his  kindly  mouth, 
his  dreamy  eyes,  his  thoughtful  brow.  He  is  there, 
behind  you.  He  is  at  your  side.  He  is  here. 

[She  rushes  towards  her  trembling  brother,  whose 
head  she  takes  between  her  hands. 

LAURENCE. 

Ah  !  do  not  frighten  me,  Aude.  Have  pity  !  I 
am  becoming  mad. 

[She  starts  back,   shivering,  and  turns  round, 
white  with  anguish. 

AUDE. 

He  is  here.  Look  at  him.  [The  brother  staggers, 
his  knees  give  way.]  Have  you  forgotten  him  ?  Re- 
cognize him.  Is  he  not  alive  ? 

[The  unfortunate  woman,  before  falling  to  the 
ground,  lifts  her  two  arms  towards  her  son, 
as  if  beating  the  air. 
Destiny  itself  might  be  mistaken. 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  65 

[  The  mother  bursts  into  tears,  and  falls  dis- 
tractedly by  her  kneeling  son,  whilst  AUDE 
turns  round,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands,  but  without  shedding  a  tear. 

[  With  an  effort,  I  VAIN  rises  to  support  the  sorrow- 
ing mother.  Filled  with  tenderness,  his  arm 
around'ther,  he  rests  his  cheek  against  hers 
and  slowly  takes  her  away. 

[HELISSBNT  comes  nearer  to  her  sister-in-law, 
touches  her  shoulder,  then  seizes  her  wrists 
to  uncover  her  face. 

HELISSENT. 
You  are  crying  ? 

[In  the  dimness,  she  feels  AUDE'S  cheek  to  know 
whether  her  tears  are  falling. 


AUDE. 

No,  I  am  not  crying.  I  must  keep  my  face  for  the 
coming  smile.  Forgive  us,  Helissent,  for  all  these 
painful  and  odious  scenes.  You  shall  have  no  more 
trouble.  It  is  I^who  oppress  and  separate  you  all. 
There  is  no  room  for  me  here.  The  night  is  falling. 


66  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

Do  you  hear  ?  Another  shower,  but  not  so  heavy. 
Listen.  It  is  raining  on  the  box  and  the  hornbeams. 
This  is  truly  the  hour  when  one  becomes  intoxicated 
with  bitter  fragrance.  The  spring  ia  melting  and 
the  world  is  effaced.  How  happy  the  Swallow  would 
be  if  she  saw  me  arrive  suddenly  at  Sormarin  more 
drenched  than  she  was !  What  are  you  thinking  of, 
Nocturne  ? 

HELISSENT. 

I  am  thinking  of  your  simile  and  that  mirror  in 
which  you  imagined  two  hands. 

AUDE. 

When  I  have  gone,  unhook  it  from  the  wall,  take  it 
and  carry  it  into  your  room. 

HELISSENT. 
Anything  may  become  an  instrument  of  magic. 

AUDE. 
Magic  and  madness  have  a  great  resemblance. 

HELISSENT. 
Perhaps  that  is  true. 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  67 

AuDE. 

Both  the  one  and  the  other  draws  the  soul  out  of 
itself. 

HELISSENT. 
Love,  too,  and  martyrdom. 

AUDE. 

And  one  must  not  weep.  One  tear  withheld  may 
become  a  magic  thought  to  lighten  us  on  the  dark 
road. 

HELISSENT. 

That  must  be  true.  When  I  used  to  cry,  I  always 
bent  my  head  forward  so  that  the  tears  should  fall 
on  my  dress,  without  hollowing  my  cheeks.  Now  I 
am  willing  to  restrain  them,  the  new  ones,  if  they 
come. 

AUDE. 
Thus  I  go  without  fear  towards  the  unknown. 

HELISSENT. 

You  would  do  better  to  wait  for  it,  little  sister. 
[A  pause.     The  whole  house  is  silent  as  though 
breathless.     One  hears  nothing  but  the  even 
rustling  of  the  spring  rain  on  the  black  garden. 


68  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

AUDE. 

Listen.  I  ask  you  most  sincerely  to  be  a  real 
elder  sister  to  me  in  this  hour,  Helissent. 

[She  seems  again  to  yield  to  her  emotion. 

HELISSENT. 

Dear  little  sister,  I  love  your  face,  your  breath, 
your  passion,  and  your  ecstasy.  I  love,  too,  your 
destiny,  unless  you  smother  it.  Do  not  be  suspicious. 
Tell  me,  I  am  listening. 

[Suddenly  the  young  girl  starts. 

AUDE. 
Helissent !     Who  is  there  ? 

[She  seizes  HELISSENT   by  the    arm,  stepping 
back. 

HELISSENT. 
Where  ?     What  is  it  ?    What  do  you  see  ? 

AuDB. 

I  saw  something  like  the  shadow  of  a  man,  there, 
behind  the  disused  fountain, 


ACT  1  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  6$ 

HELISSENT. 
Do  not  frighten  me.     Your  mind  is  wandering. 

AUDE. 
No,  no  !     Some  one  is  there. 

[They  press  one  against  the  other,  communicating 
their  mutual  fear. 

HELISSENT. 
Who  is  there  ? 

[PIERRE  DAGON  mounts  the  flight  of  steps  and 
enters  the  hall. 

AUDE. 
It  is  a  man,  a  living  man. 

[She  recognizes  him  and  can  hardly  stifle  a  scream, 
whilst  releasing  herself  from  her  sister-in-law 
and  retreating  still  farther. 
He!    It  is  he! 

[The  guest  takes  of  his  hat  and  crosses  the  hall. 
He  has  complete  control  of  himself,  in  his 
simple  and  perfect  courtesy;  but  from 
time  to  time  one  can  feel  in  his  voice  a  sup- 
pressed agitation. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
Pray  forgive  me  for  intruding  in  this  fashion.     I 


7b  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  l 

am  Pierre  Dagon.  I  was  wandering  in  the  park, 
waiting  to  be  fetched.  It  is  getting  late  and  pouring 
with  rain.  I  came  in  the  hope  of  finding  a  servant. 
Forgive  this  involuntary  intrusion.  May  I  ask  if 
Madame  Dagon  is  still  here  ? 

[He  catches  sight  of  the  young  girl,  who,  standing 
near  the  statue  in  the  shade,  has  her  eyes 
fixed  on  him. 

Ah !  it  is  you,  Aude !     Your  mother  .  .  . 

[Hearing  that  voice  pronounce  her  name,  she 
loses  all  control  of  herself.  She  interrupts 
him  with  sudden  violence.  Anger  strangles 
her  words.  She  stands  near  the  torso,  erect, 
her  head  thrown  back,  her  fists  clenched,  fierce 
and  ardent. 

AUDE. 

No,  no,  I  will  not  have  it.  I  will  not  have  you  pro- 
nounce my  name  or  that  other  before  me.  I  will  not 
have  you  use  that  hypocritical  voice,  dare  to  address 
me,  or  attempt  to  influence  me.  Once  more  you 
will  deceive  them  all,  but  not  me.  I  hate  you  !  I 
hate  you  !  Now,  with  all  my  strength,  I  can  throw 
in  your  face,  before  I  leave,  my  hatred  and  contempt 
for  you.  You  waited  until  night  before  coming  in, 


ACT  i  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  71 

as  if  you  were  going  to  plunder  the  house  a  second 
time. 

HELISSENT. 
Aude! 

AUDE. 

Is  it  not  true  ?  Look  at  him.  Look  at  his  hands. 
How  long  had  you  been  there  prowling  and  spying  ? 
Did  not  the  stones  cry  out  ?  But  they  will  cry  out. 
When  I  caught  sight  of  your  shadow  you  seemed  to 
be  carrying  a  corpse.  .  .  .  It  is  a  load  that  each  day 
becomes  heavier,  until  it  crushes  you  under  it. 

HELISSENT. 

Aude,  I  beg  of  you,  I  beg  of  you,  calm  your- 
self! 

AUDE. 

You  got  in  here  by  a  stratagem.  You  will  stay — I 
know  it.  I  know  that  skill.  You  will  not  be  turned 
out,  but  honoured.  The  dead  will  be  buried  a  second 
time,  and  the  table  will  be  laid  each  evening  for  the 
merciless  guest. 

HELISSENT. 
I  beg  of  you,  Aude !     It  is  not  right  ... 


72  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

AUDE. 

Ah  !  it  is  not  right !     And  you  beg  of  me  ... 

[She  stops  for  a  moment  and  changes  suddenly. 
Her  hostile  fury  forsakes  her.  Her  voice 
loses  its  rasping  tone,  her  whole  person- 
ality seems  to  shrink.  And  yet,  something 
more  sinister  still  glitters  beneath  her  eye- 
lashes. 

My  brother  implores  me,  my  mother  entreats  me. 
Now  I  feel  grace  descending  on  me.  I  want  to  be 
docile,  better  than  a  holy  image.  A  "real  little 
angel,"  as  they  say. 

[She  recoils  slowly  towards  the  door,  which  is 
behind  her.  Sarcasm  contracts  her  mouth. 
A  curiously  childish  expression  is  in  contrast 
with  her  convulsed  features. 

Father  of  my  soul,  you  will  find  this  evening,  under 
your  napkin,  a  bunch  of  violets,  and  perhaps  another 
under  your  pillow.  Will  this  please  you  ?  Will  this 
satisfy  you  ?  And  then  you  will  tell  me  another 
wonderful  story. 

[AuDE  has  reached  the  threshold  and  fades  into 
the  night  like  a  ghost. 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  73 

HELISSENT. 

One  would  really  think  her  mad.  She  frightens 
me.  Had  she  not,  a  moment  ago,  the  expression  of 
a  maniac,  and  the  gestures,  voice  and  look  of  one 
who  is  demented  ? 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

She  is  a  strange  creature,  not  without  power  and 
beauty.  It  would  be  a  great  pity  if  she  were  to  be 
lost.  But  she  lives  only  by  the  fictions  that  are 
born  in  her  heart,  and  each  one,  in  her,  seems  to 
have  a  semblance  of  necessity.  From  the  day  when 
I  ceased  to  tell  her  some  "wonderful  story,"  she 
must  have  told  herself  one,  filled  with  gloom,  and 
then  she  must  have  set  herself  to  live  it  desperately. 

[He  speaks  with  a  sort  of  calm  and  lurid  melan- 
choly, with  a  quiet  assurance,  like  some  one 
resolved  to  seize  the  substance  of  life  and  treat 
it  as  a  master,  attentively  and  soberly. 

HELISSEOT. 
Is  that  the  cause  of  her  suffering  ? 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
For  some  time  I  watched  this  mysterious  child  with 


74  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

the  closest  attention.  Her  soul  is  filled  with  con- 
fused images  that  crave  interpretation.  She  had 
within  her,  then,  so  ardent  a  desire  to  be  understood, 
and  to  understand,  that  her  fervour  resembled  at 
times  those  birds  which  dash  themselves  against  the 
lenses  of  a  lighthouse,  and  break  their  wings  without 
shutting  their  eyes. 

[He  is  still  standing.  The  young  woman  is 
leaning  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  in  her  usual 
position,  her  chin  resting  on  the  back  of  her 
hand,  and  she  seems  to  scrutinize  him  with 
her  long  eyes  behind  the  mask  of  white  satin. 
Like  a  one-edged  weapon,  her  voice  has  a 
thin  thread  of  raillery. 

HELISSENT. 

Then  you  are  one  of  those  'who  can  read  in  a 
virgin's  soul  ?  How  wonderful !  "When  I  think  of 
my  soul  as  it  was  then,  on  the  threshold  of  life,  I 
compare  it  to  a  butterfly  which  rests,  its  wings  raised 
so  as  to  be  joined  at  the  sides  which  bear  the  colours 
and  the  signs,  like  the  twin  pages  of  two  sections  of 
a  book,  laid  together  face  to  face. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
And  after? 


Act  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  75 

HELISSENT. 

After,  I  became  a  moth.  By  the  way,  they  have 
not  yet  brought  in  the  lamps !  The  only  thing  Aude 
needs,  really,  is  a  little  happiness. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

As  it  so  happens,  the  line  of  happiness  is  not  found 
in  her  hand. 

HELISSENT. 
Are  you  also  a  palmist  ? 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

She  knew  it.  One  day,  however,  she  asked  me 
with  great  seriousness :  "  Do  you  really  believe  one 
can  die  ?  " 

HELISSENT. 
And  do  you  really  believe  it  ? 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

Certain  beings  occasionally  seem  so  far  removed, 
they  might  be  immortals.  There  were  mornings 
when  the  air  held  her  as  though  she  were  something 


76  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  1 

that  must  be  kept  for  ever,  like  one  of  those  bees 
enclosed  in  translucent  amber  where  they  have 
acquired  a  sort  of  eternity  without  honey.  Then  she 
would  come  towards  me,  with  her  dreams  and  her 
thoughts  no  less  entangled  than  her  hair  filled  with 
leaves,  straws  and  thorns,  after  her  wanderings  in 
the  deserted  park.  And  she  would  remain  silent, 
seeming  to  wait  for  me  to  unravel  them. 

HELISSENT. 
Her  tresses  ? 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
Her  thoughts. 

HELISSENT. 
Are  your  hands  skilful  ? 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
They  are  not  without  timidity. 

HELISSENT. 
That  is  perhaps  why  you  hurt  her. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
"  What  good  this  pain  does  me  ! "  was  one  of  her 


ACT  r  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  77 

precocious,  mystical  sayings.  One  day  I  heard  her 
say  to  a  little  frieud  called  Clariel,  as  a  great  secret, 
whilst  their  two  hearts  beat  on  the  same  level : 
"  Teach  me  Venetian  point,  and  I  will  teach  you  to 
shed  the  kind  of  tears  that  are  unknown  to  you." 

HELISSENT. 

That  is  charming.  A  little  while  ago  she  was 
teaching  me  not  to  shed  them. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

Something  far  more  difficult,  but  perhaps  more 
intoxicating.  It  is  the  teaching  of  a  martyr. 

HELISSENT. 
Or  of  a  magician. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

Is  not  one  included  in  the  other,  by  a  common 
desire  to  overcome  nature  and  the  spirit  ?  I  believe 
that  martyrdom  is  the  true  vocation  of  that  child. 
See  how  she  invents  her  torment,  since  she  cannot  be 
pierced  with  arrows  nor  torn  on  the  spikes  of  the 
wheel ! 


78  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  l 

HELISSENT. 

She  said  just  now  :  "  I  must  keep  my  face  for  the 
coming  smile." 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

Another  mystical   saying.     Ah !    who   will   save 
her? 

HELISSENT. 
Love,  perhaps. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
A  poor  deliverer. 

[HELISSENT  changes  her  attitude  and  pronounces 
the  following  word  with  a  sort  of  sudden  and 
hidden  perfidy. 

HELISSENT. 
Vengeance ! 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

It  does  not  satisfy.     It  is  almost  always  in  vain. 
[HELISSENT   moves  aimlessly  about  the  room, 
disturbed,  possessed  by  her  demon  ;  the  tone 
of  her  voice  dulled  by  the  dream,  but  always 
with  a  keen  edge  of  irony. 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  79 

HELISSENT. 
Time,  solitude,  madness,  sanctity,  death  .  .  . 

PIERRE  DAQON. 
What  vast  things  ! 

HELISSENT. 
A  victory  on  bended  knees. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

What  vast  things  you  dare  to  name  at  the  approach 
of  night ! 

[The  rain  ceases.  It  seems  as  if,  on  its  thousand 
broken  silvery  threads,  the  silence  is  stretched 
so  as  to  be  reflected  in  the  ebbing  twilight  that 
turns  to  green  the  great  blind  walls.  But 
the  atmosphere  of  the  room  is  as  if  it  were 
stirred  by  the  torment  of  the  spirit. 
HELISSENT  stops. 

HELISSENT. 
Well,  what  are  we  waiting  for  ? 


So  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  I 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

Good-bye  !  Please  forgive  me  and  believe  in  the 
sincerity  of  my  regret.  Chance  so  decreed  that  my 
hesitations  and  my  fears  were  severed  at  one  blow. 
I  regarded  myself,  at  the  moment  of  entering,  a 
stranger,  almost  a  beggar.  On  leaving,  I  know  that 
I  am  regarded  here  as  an  enemy,  almost  a  plunderer. 
However,  I  do  not  nurse  the  slightest  resentment, 
and  my  trouble  is  bearable  when  compared  to 
another,  far  heavier.  I  will  wait  for  my  wife  at 
the  gate.  The  rain  has  almost  ceased.  I  should  be 
infinitely  obliged  if  you  would  have  her  informed  of 
this.  At  all  events,  I  shall  not  forget  the  end 
of  this  day. 

[He  bows  low  and  goes  towards  the  hall. 
HELISSENT  acknowledges  his  bow  silently, 
her  hands  clasped  behind  her  back.  Then 
she  continues  to  wander  in  the  shadow  of  the 
room,  agitated  by  anxious  doubts.  Whilst 
the  visitor  descends  the  flight  of  steps,  she 
stops  to  watch  him.  She  takes  a  few  uncer- 
tain steps  towards  the  portico.  Suddenly  she 
recalls  him. 

HELISSENT. 
I  beg  you  to  stay.     You  are  my  guest. 


ACT  I  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  81 

[PIERRE  DAGON  stops  in  the  shadow,  and  turns 

round.     A   gleam  passes  through  his  eyes. 

He  remounts   the   steps,   whilst    the   young 

woman  waits  for  him,  standing. 
[Two    old    servants    enter   noiselessly,    bearing 

lighted  lamps. 


THE  SECOND  ACT 

SCENE  :  AUDE'S  room,,  the  one  she  used  as  a  young  girl, 
simple  and  pure,  hung  with  brocade  of  green  and 
white  (a  budding  green,  the  white  of  mother-of- 
pearl)  under  a  ceiling  of  rafters  and  beams,  with 
painted  arrises  bearing  the  device  of  the  "  Hazel  and 
Honeysuckle,"  just  as  the  noble  Hardre  adorned  it. 

The  small  virginal  bed  occupies  a  corner  contrived  in  the 
left  wall,  and  screened  by  curtains.  A  large  latticed 
window,  in  a  deep  recess  of  the  wall  opposite,  lets 
in  the  daylight,  to  which  the  swaying  foliage  of 
the  green  oaks  gives  the  effect  of  a  transparent  sea. 
In  the  thickness  of  the  other  wall,  forming  the 
outer  angle,  giving  on  to  the  park,  a  few  steps  lead 
up  through  a  large  glass  door  to  a  stone  terrace, 
encircled  by  a  balustrade  and  covered  with  a  bower 
of  wistaria,  upheld  by  a  wooden  trellis,  equal  in 
elegance  to  the  "  loggetta  "  of  Paul  V.  in  the  Roman 
Villa  of  Mondragora.  From  there  a  few  steps 
lead  down  into  one  of  the  hanging  gardens.  On 
83 


84  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  II 

low  bookshelves,  filled  with  books,  are  potteries, 
caskets,  framed  prints,  a  few  Bur  gundian  statuettes 
of  mourners,  an  inlaid  Kiss  of  Peace,  a  Limoges 
triptych  by  the  first  Jean  Penicaud,  one  of  those 
enamels  that  look  as  if  many  glazed  black  eyes 
were  gleaming  fiercely  out  of  their  dazzling  white 
sockets. 

A  graceful  harpsichord  with  two  keyboards  the  colour 
of  ivory,  polished  like  the  keys  and  decorated  with 
little  garlands  of  myrtle  tied  with  pink  ribands, 
slumbers  away  in  a  corner,  under  books  of  music 
bound  in  parchment. 

Faded  green  and  white  brocade  covers  also  the  chairs, 
the  sofas  and  the  tables.  A  green  tapestry  hides 
the  door  on  the  left,  leading  into  the  next  room. 

Jt  is  an  afternoon  at  the  beginning  of  June.  The  sun, 
through  the  thick  cluster's  of  the  wistaria,  shines 
with  a  transparency  of  amethysts,  as  if  it  were  dyed 
in  the  purple  tunic  of  a  Saint  on  the  stained-glass 
window  of  a  chapel.  Under  these  mauve  reflections 
that  mottle  the  daylight,  made  green  by  the  foliage 
of  the  great  oaks,  the  whole  room  is  filled  with  a 
strange  light,  almost  livid  in  the  sJiadowy  corners. 

By  the  terrace  with  the  shining  wistarias  THE  SWALLOW 
has  just  entered,  dad  as  usual  in  white  and  blue- 
black,  but  in  a  new  style.  Still  holding  back  with 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  85 

one  hand  the  open  casement,  she  bears  in  the  other 
arm  a  mass  of  fresh  tangled  honeysuckle,  which 
buries  her  bosom  in  fragrance  up  to  the  chin.  She 
leans  from  the  top  of  the  steps  towards  THE  MAID, 
who  approaches  softly. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Is  she  not  there  ? 

THE  MAID. 
She  is  resting. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Where? 

THE  MAID. 
There— on  her  little  bed. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
How  long  has  she  been  there  ? 

THE  MAID. 
About  an  hour. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
She  was  not  feeling  well  ? 

THE  MAID. 
She  never  feels  well.     Again  last  night  she  never 


86  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

closed  her  eyes.     Oh,  dear !     I  heard  her  moving 
until  dawn. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Has  the  doctor  been  ? 

THE  MAID. 

Yes,  Miss.     He  said  she  had  a  little  fever,  this 
morning. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Very  little  ? 

THE  MAID. 

Oh,  it  is   certainly   not   that   which   makes   her 
delirious. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

What  do  you  say,  Aibeline?     She  has  been  de- 
lirious ? 

[She  runs  down  the  steps  rapidly  and  comes  nearer. 

THE  MAID. 
It  is  a  fixed  idea,  Miss,  and  they  call  it  delirium. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Always  her  father  ? 


ACT  it  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  87 

THE  MAID. 

Al  ways.  It  is  an  idea  that  never  leaves  her.  Even 
before  coming  back  here,  it  never  ceased  to  obsess 
her.  I  know  it  well.  I  do  not  forget  the  dark  days 
we  spent  at  the  time  of  Madame  Laurence's  marriage 
to  Monsieur  Dagon. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

As  for  me,  Aibeline,  I  cannot  understand.  There 
must  be  something  in  it  all. 

THE  MAID. 
There  certainly  is  something. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
But  what  ? 

THE  MAID. 
How  can  I  tell  you,  Miss  ? 

THE  SWALLOW. 
This  hatred  for  her  father-in-law  .  .  . 

THE  MAID. 
It  is  a  very  bitter  hatred, 


THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  II 

THE  SWALLOW. 

But  it  used  not  to  be  so.  What  can  he  have  done 
to  her  ? 

THE  MAID. 
How  can  I  tell  you  ? 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Why  ?     I  thought  you  knew  everything. 

THE  MAID. 
I  know  nothing  about  anything. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
What  a  pity ! 

THE  MAID. 

She  confides  in  no  one.  And  you  know  how 
obstinate  she  is.  She  keeps  all  her  thoughts  in  her 
little  stubborn  head,  and,  as  if  they  were  not  suffi- 
ciently guarded,  she  makes  me  surround  them  with 
her  hair  twisted  in  tight  coils. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
It  suits  her  really  very  well. 


ACT  it  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  89 

THE  MAID. 

To  be  sure  it  does.  But  when  I  do  her  hair, 
morning  and  evening,  she  no  longer  talks.  She  used 
to  sing  softly  in  her  hair,  as  in  a  cage  of  russet 
wicker.  Now  she  is  silent  and  only  muses  and  medi- 
tates. Even  when  I  think  I  must  have  hurt  her, 
she  does  not  move;  and  I  confess  I  feel  a  sort  of 
fear — a  dread — that  sometimes  my  hands  are  plung- 
ing into  her  living  grief. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

Ah,  living  !  Surely  they  are  living,  those  tresses  of 
a  young  fury ;  they  seem  as  though  they  remembered 
having  once  been  serpents.  .  .  . 

THE  MAID. 
Serpents,  Miss ! 

THE  SWALLOW, 

Little  serpents  without  fangs,  Aibeline ;  little 
adders  of  no  importance,  without  head  or  tail,  and 
incapable  of  harm.  But  is  it  not  true  that,  when 
they  are  not  tightly  coiled  in  a  plait,  they  seem  to 
escape  ?  I  wish  mine  were  like  that,  too,  so  that  in 
the  evening  some  one  might  charm  them  with  a  little 
flute. 


90  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

THE  MAID. 

There  you  are ;  one  wishes  for  one  thing,  and 
another  wishes  for  another.  You  are  lucky,  though, 
Miss,  to  have  found  the  charmer  ! 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Am  I  blushing,  Aibeline  ? 

[With  a  graceful  movement,  she  impulsively  drops 
the  bunch  of  honeysuckle,  and,  opening  her 
enamel  case,  she  looks  at  herself  in  the  mirror 
hidden  between  the  powder  and  the  puff.  At 
the  same  time  she  powders  her  nose. 

THE  MAID. 
One  takes  no  notice  of  it,  Miss.    It  is  cherry-time. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Listen,  Aibeline.     Something  must  be  done. 

THE  MAID. 
Well? 

THE  SWALLOW. 

Does  it  not  seem  to  you  that  she  is  suffering,  as  if 
she  were  love-sick — without  love  ? 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  91 

THE  MAID. 
When  one  suffers,  it  is  all  the  same. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Ah! 

THE  MAID. 
And  what  would  you  suggest  ? 

THE  SWALLOW. 

"What  would  I  not  do  to  cure  my  Audain  ?  I  think 
I  would  even  give  her  my  happiness,  if  it  were 
possible.  But  one  cannot,  because  he  is  too  big  a  boy. 
If  I  were  really  a  swallow  I  would  go  away  and  fetch 
her  that  unknown  him  that  one  waits  for  always  ; 
who,  before  he  came  to  me,  dwelt  in  the  corner  of  the 
golden  sky,  whence  come  the  swallows  certain  even- 
ings, suddenly,  whirring  over  us  with  so  white  a  flash 
that  one  feels,  "  Ah  !  this  is  he  who  has  just  added 
a  wing  to  the  birds." 

THE  MAID. 

May  your  lovely  dreams  be  in  God's  keeping !  But 
jf  he  qame,  perhaps  he  would  not  be  welcome. 


92  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

THB  SWALLOW. 

He  would  not  come  if  one  were  not  waiting  for 
him. 

THE  MAID. 
But  one  does  not  know  what  one  is  waiting  for. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

One  waits  only  for  love.  [She  starts,  thinking  she 
hears  a  sigh  behind  the  curtain.]  Aibeline,  did  you 
not  hear  ?  She  is  waking. 

[THE  MAID,  holding  her  breath,  goes  on  tiptoe 
to  listen. 

THE  MAID. 

She  is  asleep.  Often  she  moans  in  her  sleep ; 
sometimes  she  speaks.  She  talks  to  herself,  too,  when 
she  is  awake,  shut  in  her  room,  during  the  day.  I  hear 
her  and  I  think  there  is  some  one  with  her.  I  go  in 
and  I  find  her  alone,  walking  to  and  fro,  with  her 
head  drooping.  Last  night  she  ate  nothing  and  did 
not  go  to  bed.  I  heard  her  stride  up  and  down  the 
room  until  very  late.  I  do  not  know  what  was  the 
matter  with  her.  Never  have  I  seen  her  look  so 
gloomy.  One  would  have  said  she  had  just  laid  a 
snare  for  some  one.  . 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  93 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Where  did  she  come  from? 

THE  MAID. 

From  the  park.  I  do  not  know  what  she  is  looking 
for.  She  seems  for  ever  on  the  watch.  Now  she 
almost  always  wears  those  laced  sandals  that  make  no 
noise.  She  slips  from  terrace  to  terrace,  glides  along 
the  walls,  hides  behind  the  hedges,  pries  into  every 
corner,  just  as  you  used  to  do — both  of  you,  when  you 
hunted  for  hedgehogs.  .  .  . 

[CLARIEL  interrupts  h&r  with  childish  vivacity. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Aibeline,  do  you  know,  that  tortoise  .  .  . 

THE  MAID. 
Which  tortoise  ? 

THE  SWALLOW. 

I  will  tell  you  after.  ...  Go  on !  Go  on  !  But 
why  does  she  do  that  ?  What  do  you  think  ? 

THE  MAID. 
I  do  not  know.     They  have  always  considered  her 


94  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

as  a  simple  child,  using  no  discretion  before  her.  That 
is  the  pity  of  it.  Even  Miss  Turner,  in  her  day,  did 
not  understand  her  at  all.  And  I  maintain  there  is 
not  her  like  in  the  world  for  seeing  everything, 
divining  everything.  She  pierces  the  soul.  She 
frightens  me  when  she  stares  at  me.  My  heart 
trembles. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

And  what  about  mine  ?  I  almost  had  to  shield  it 
sometimes  with  my  band,  like  a  candle,  so  that  she 
should  not  see  it  burning.  I  am  almost  ashamed  of 
being  happy.  I  would  like  always  to  have  red  eyes 
when  I  come,  so  as  to  say  to  her  :  "  You  know  they 
have  made  me  cry  too." 

THE  MAID. 

But  she  does  not  cry  at  all.  If  she  only  could ! 
Oh,  God !  Oh,  God,  help  us  to  get  through  these 
two  days  !  Oh,  they  are  long ! 

THE  SWALLOW. 
They  have  lengthened  by  six  hours,  Aibeline. 

[She  brightent  with  an  involuntary  smile 


ACT  li  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  95 

THE  MAID. 

To-day   is    the    day  before   the   vigil  of  Corpus 
Christi. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
It  is  true. 

THE  MAID. 

To-morrow  a  requiem  mass  is  to  be  said  in  the 

chapel. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

Yes.     It  is  the  anniversary. 

THE  MAID. 
I  hardly  know  what  they  will  do. 

THE  SWALLOW. 
Will  all  of  them  attend  it  ? 

THE  MAID. 

May  the  departed  soul  send  us  a  blessing  to-day 
Do  you  know  what  they  are  going  to  attempt  ? 

THE  SWALLOW. 

What? 

THE  MAID. 

Monsieur  Dagon  is  to  come  and  speak  to  her  and 


96  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  it 

try  to  persuade  her  to  remove  her  fixed  idea — to  cure 
her  of  her  mania — to  calm  her,  in  fact.  They  declare 
it  is  the  only  thing  to  do  in  this  crisis.  It  seems 
Monsieur  Dagon  is  prepared  to  do  so  this  very  day, 
before  evening.  There  must  be  some  way  out  of  this 
hidden  hell ;  but  I  am  very  nervous  about  it.  The 
doctor  seems  too  anxious.  The  day  before  yesterday 
Miss  Aude  kept  him  for  over  an  hour,  talking  and 
talking.  And  when  he  left  he  had  such  a  sorrowful 
expression. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

IB  it  Dr.  Maclaine — the  one  who  attended  her 
father? 

THE  MAID. 

The  same.  "Well,  that  is  what  they  are  going  to 
attempt,  with  the  help  of  God. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

May  God  grant  us  that  help !  I  really  believe, 
Aibeline,  that  great  good  may  come  of  it.  I  have 
just  seen  a  good  omen. 

[She    speaks    in    a    mysterious    tone,     almost 
solemnly. 

THE  MAID. 
What  was  it  ? 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  97 

THE  SWALLOW. 

That  poor  tortoise,  you  know,  with  the  shell  all 
jagged  and  split,  that  we  used  to  call  the  Old 
Mandrague,  so  dear  to  Aude,  who  thought  she 
was  lost,  because  she  had  not  shown  herself 
lately.  .  .  . 

THE  MAID. 
Well? 

THE  SWALLOW. 

She  has  reappeared.  Whilst  I  was  taking  great 
pains  to  uproot  this  honeysuckle,  near  the  clump  of 
hazel  trees,  I  felt  the  bottom  of  my  dress  gently — 
oh,  so  gently — tugged  at,  as  if  by  a  shy  kitten.  I 
turned  round.  It  was  she,  at  my  feet ;  it  was  she, 
wagging  her  head  and  looking  like  a  snake  that  has 
just  shed  its  skin. 

THE  MAID. 
She  was  really  tugging  at  your  skirt? 

THE  SWALLOW. 

Just  as  I  tell  you.  Perhaps  she  took  me  for  a 
lettuce.  I  lifted  her  in  my  two  hands  ;  I  laid  her 
gently  on  a  beautiful  warm  stone  and  said  to  her : 
"  Stay  there,  Mandrague,  without  moving.  I  will 


89  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

soon  bring  you  the  fairy  Aude."     I  think  she  must 
have  understood. 

[She  stops  a  moment  and  strains  her  ear  towards 

the  curtains,  all  quivering. 
Is  she  not  waking  up  ?     She  seems  to  be  sighing. 

THE  MAID. 
She  seems  to  be  sleeping  heavily. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

She  must  sleep  her  sleep  out.  She  will  wake  up 
refreshed  and  ready  to  let  herself  be  cured.  What 
can  one  do,  Aibeline  ?  Oh !  is  there  no  magic 
potion  ? 

THE  MAID. 

If  there  is  one,  and  if  a  heart  is  needed  to  crush, 
here  is  mine. 

[Her  simple,  grave  voice  is  tremulous  with  un- 
limited devotion. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

You  love  her,  I  know.  Ah,  how  good  it  is  to  hear 
love  expressed  thus !  Take  care  of  her  always,  gentle 
Aibeline.  I  leave  the  honeysuckle  here  for  her. 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  gg 

[She  strews  the  long  tendrils  on  the  carpet,  in 
front  of  the  curtains,  as  a  sort  of  trap. 

Do  not  put  them  anywhere  else,  I  beg  of  you.  I 
wish  that  in  coming  out  from  behind  the  curtains 
she  should  step  into  them  and  stay  there,  entangled, 
and  that  she  should  say,  laughing  low:  "It  is 
Clariel," 

[She  imitates  her  friend,  lifting  a  mischievous 
finger  up  to  her  pouting  face.  She  is  so 
loving  and  gentle  that  there  are  almost 
tears  in  her  voice. 

I  am  going,  but  I  will  come  back.  I  will  come 
towards  evening.  Ah  !  but  I  should  like  to  see  her 
one  instant,  one  instant !  Just  time  to  put  my  face 
between  the  curtains,  Aibeline,  and  look  at  her. 
Quite  softly,  quite  softly  !  I  am  holding  my  breath. 

[THE  MAID  makes  a  gesture  of  compassionate 
consent.  With  in/mite  precaution,  CLARIEL 
draws  the  curtain  slightly  apart  with  her 
fingers  and  looks  in.  There  is  a  great  silence, 
as  when  human  anguish  rises  little  by  little 
up  to  the  brink  of  the  eyelashes  and  overflows. 
She  turns  round  suddenly,  her  hands  clutch- 
ing at  her  throat  as  if  to  arrest  the  sob  that 
almost  strangles  her.  She  fails;  the  tears 


100  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  H 

burst  forth.  As  she  withdraws,  running, 
she  steps  into  the  flowery  trap,  which  she 
scatters  and  drags  after  her.  She  reascends 
the  steps  of  the  terrace,  disappears  in  the 
transparency  of  the  wistarias,  and  so  "  Black 
and  White"  goes  back  crying,  to  her  happi- 
ness. 

THE  VOICE  OP  AUDE. 
Aibeline !     Aibeline ! 

THE  MAID. 
Here  I  am.     I  am  here,  Miss. 

THE  VOICE  OF  AUDE. 
Ah !     Who  has  tied  me  down  ? 

[It  is  a  deep  wail,  a  voice    of  anguish   still 
wrapped  in  the  obscurity  of  sleep. 

THE  MAID. 
I  have  not  moved — I  have  not  moved  ! 

THE  VOICE  OF  AUDE. 
Ah  !     Who  was  sobbing  over  me  ? 

[She  has  a  sort  of  breathlessness,  as  if,  in  order 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  tor 

to  rise,  she  had  to  make  an  effort  to  break  a 
cord  that  bound  her.  She  appears  between 
the  two  curtains,  haggard,  her  forehead  damp 
with  sweat. 

Who  was  sobbing  ?     Myself  ?     Tell  me. 

THE  MAID. 
No,  Miss.     You  have  been  dreaming. 

AUDE. 

And  these  flowers?  Tell  me,  Clariel  has  been 
here?  Did  she  come,  the  Swallow? 

THE  MAID. 
A  moment  ago. 

AUDE. 

She  is  gone  ?  Oh,  call  her  back — call  her  back  ! 
[She  walks  on  the  fragrant  tracks.]  She  has  passed  up 
here  ?  It  is  she  who  left  behind  her  this  trail  ?  Call 
her  back !  Oh,  sweet,  sweet  Swallow  ! 

[THE  MAID  goes  up  to  the  balustrade. 

THE  MAID. 

She  said  she  would  come  again  towards  evening. 
Do  not  fret. 


THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

[She  disappears  by  the  steps  leading  below  to  the 
hanging  garden. 


AUDE. 

Will  it  not  be  too  late  towards  evening?  It  is 
the  vigil.  It  is  my  vigil !  I  wished  to  say  good-bye 
to  her,  to  see  myself  again  in  her,  as  I  used  to  be — 
to  say  good-bye  to  myself,  to  her  poor  Audain. 

[She  is  still  somewhat  breathless,  her  face  veiled 
in  a  dream.  She  leans  down  to  disengage 
one  of  her  ankles  entwined  in  the  creeper. 

It  was  you  who  tied  me  up,  Clariel ! 

[Between  her  stooping  face  and  her  body  bent 
forwards,  her  voice  has  a  peculiar  intonation, 
almost  silvery — that  of  a  child.  Then  again 
she  becomes  gloomy. 

I  could  not  move  when  I  woke  up.  I  was  all 
tied  up.  Why  ?  And  who  was  sobbing  ? 

[She  staggers  and  touches  her  moist  forehead  with 
her  fingers. 

But  if  it  was  only  fever  ?  No,  I  have  no  more  fever : 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  103 

I  must  not  have  any.  I  must  have  nothing  but 
courage,  courage,  courage. 

[She  shakes  herself  and  straightens  her  figure. 

[THE  MAID  comes  back,  passes  under  the  bower 
of  wistaria,  and  steps  down  into  the  room. 

THE  MAID. 

I  could  not  overtake  her  nor  call  her  back.     She 
had  already  disappeared. 

AUDE. 
She  flies,  I  know. 

[The  words  are  illumined  once  more  by  a  tender 
smile. 

THE  MAID. 
But  she  is  coming  back — she  is  coming  back. 

AUDE. 
Tell  me,  Aibeline,  it  was  she  who  was  crying  ? 

THE  MAID. 
No,  Miss. 

AUDE. 
Well  then,  who  was  it  ? 


104  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

THE  MAID. 

I  assure  you,  on  the  contrary,  she  was  very  gay. 
She  brought  you  great  news. 

AUDE. 
Great  news  ? 

THE  MAID. 

Yes ;  that  tortoise  you  used  to  call  the  Old  Man- 
drague  has  appeared  once  more.  She  found  it  just 
now,  by  the  clump  of  hazel  trees. 

AUDE. 
It  is  true  ? 

[Once  again,  in  a  spontaneous  outburst  of  youth, 
she  shows  herself  to  be  CLAEIEL'S  companion, 
the  untamed  friend  of  the  swallow, 

THE  MAID. 
Yes,  quite  true.     You  shall  hear  the  whole  story. 

AUDE. 

But  who  was  crying?  It  seemed  to  me  I  was 
awakened  by  a  great  sob. 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  105 

THE  MAID. 
Believe  me,  it  was  a  dream. 

AUDE. 
No  one  else  came  ?     My  mother  ? 

THE  MAID. 
Not  yet,  Miss.     How  do  you  feel  ? 

AUDE. 
Well. 

THE  MAID. 
Has  the  fever  abated,  do  you  think  ? 

AUDE. 
Yes. 

THE  MAID. 
You  do  not  shiver  ? 

AUDE. 
No. 

THE  MAID. 

Your  forehead  is  rather  moist.     Would  you  like 
anything  ? 


106  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  H 

[AuDE  takes  a  bottle  of  perfume,  pours  some  on  a 
handkerchief,  inhales  it  and  presses  it  gently 
to  her  forehead,  her  neck,  behind  her  ear. 

THE  MAID. 
I  heard  some  one  knock  at  the  door. 

THE  VOICE  OF  HELISSENT. 
Aude,  are  you  there  ?     May  I  come  in  ? 

THE  MAID. 
Do  you  feel  ill  ?    How  pale  you  have  become ! 

AUDE. 
Be  quiet !     Go !  don't  come,  unless  I  call  you. 

[She  takes  a  step  towards  the  door,  bracing  her- 
self up. 
Come  in — come  in,  Helissent ! 

[THE  MAID  lifts  up  the  tapestry,  and,  as  HELIS- 
SENT walks  in,  she  slips  out  behind  her.  The 
two  sisters-in-law  look  at  each  other,  forcing 
a  smile  of  greeting  and  welcome,  like  some- 
thing attached  to  their  faces  and  capable  oj 
staying  there  always  if  one  forgot  to  unfasten 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  107 

it.     Between  them  seems  to  float  a  vague 
enmity. 

HELISSENT. 
How  do  you  feel  ? 

AUDE. 

Well,  thank  you.  I  slept  for  an  hour.  Sleep 
brings  patience. 

HELISSENT. 
Are  you  more  peaceful  ? 

AUDE. 

I  am  peaceful — you  see  I  am.  Clariel  has  strewn 
my  room  with  flowers  before  the  time.  You  can  come 
nearer  ;  you  can  sit  down.  I  am  not  in  a  wild  mood  ; 
I  am  not  at  all  dangerous.  You  must  forgive  me. 
Last  night  there  was  thunder  in  the  air.  I  do  not 
know  what  possessed  me.  "  You  worry  every  one 
with  your  shuddering."  It  was  not  you  who  said 
that  to  me — no,  I  do  not  remember.  But  I  must : 
I  must  cure  myself,  this  very  day,  of  that  strange 
infirmity.  It  is  nothing,  "  only  it  mars  all  pleasure." 
I  am  going  to  be  cured  of  all  ills.  It  is  sufficient  to 
tell  me ;  it  is  sufficient  for  me  to  will  it.  We  have 
been  promised  that  peace  will  be  restored  everywhere. 


io8  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

The  day  after  to-morrow  is  Corpus  Christi.     I  would 
like  to  give  bread  to  some  poor  soul. 

HELISSENT. 

Then,  all  is  well.  What  a  strange  light  you 
have  here ! 

AUDE. 

The  light  in  a  ship  that  has  foundered.  You  do 
not  like  it  ?  And  yet  it  seems  made  for  you,  who 
are  so  lithe. 

HELISSENT. 
Irony  ? 

ADDE. 

Oh,  no,  I  admire  you.  And  you  know  it.  Each 
of  your  movements  charms  me.  Just  now,  your 
suppleness  seemed  to  enter  into  a  whirlpool. 

HELISSENT. 

My  dear,  would  you  like  us  to  talk  a  little 
seriously  ? 

AUDE. 
Let  us  talk. 

HELISSENT. 
Seriously  and  openly,  as  two  loyal  sisters  ? 


ACX  II  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  109 

AUDE. 

"More  worthy  is  foolish  loyalty  than  clever 
treason  "  is  one  of  our  oldest  sayings. 

HELISSENT. 

Well,  listen,  Aude.  Let  me  broach  the  subject 
with  frankness.  It  is  my  duty  henceforth.  It  is  I 
who  welcomed  here  your  mother  and  your  stepfather. 
It  is  I  who  detained  you  here,  who  hindered  your 
escaping  and  committing  a  useless  folly  ;  it  is  I  who, 
during  these  weeks,  have  watched  without  ceasing,  so 
as  to  avoid  all  painful  encounters,  all  odious  scenes. 
I  did  not  hesitate  then  to  assume  this  charge,  in 
view  of  what  is  happening  and  of  what  may  happen  ; 
and  I  will  not  withdraw  from  it. 

AUDE. 
That  is  right. 

HELISSENT. 

I  understand  and  respect  your  sacred  feeling 
There  is  always  surrounding  you,  manifest  or  con- 
cealed, a  sort  of  compassion. 

ACDE. 
You  think  so  ? 


no  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

HELISSENT. 

I  do  not  wish  to  offend  you  :  I  mean  to  say  that 
your  grief,  and  the  actions  of  your  grief,  have  now 
and  then  something  of  mania,  of  delirium.  I  myself 
have  sometimes  treated  you  as  a  little  invalid.  No 
one  has  ever  tried  to  get  to  the  very  root  of  your 
trouble.  Besides,  you  retired  into  yourself :  you 
kept  aloof,  to  brood  over  your  wrongs.  There  is 
in  your  nature  an  arrogance  and  scorn  that  repel 
confidence.  Have  you  not  even  estranged  your 
brother  ? 

AUDE. 

Poor  Ivain ! 

HELISSENT. 

But,  personally,  I  do  not  regard  the  anguish  that 
oppresses  you  as  an  illness,  as  an  incurable  mania. 
And  I  speak  to  your  reason — I  appeal  to  your 
reason. 

AUDB. 
Poor  reason  ! 

HELISSENT. 

You  have  so  racked  your  brain  that  your  reason 
has  sunk  to  the  bottom. 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  m 

AUDE. 

That  is  its  place. 

HELISSENT. 

Very  well.  It  is  its  place  and  the  place  of  the 
motive— for  there  must  be  a  motive. 

AUDE. 
The  motive  is  pending. 

HELISSENT. 

Enigmas  again!  From  everything  about  you 
rises  an  accusation— bursts  forth  the  form  of  an 
accusation. 

AUDE. 
More  than  one,  perhaps. 

HELISSENT. 
There  is  a  proof,  then  ? 

AUDE. 

There  is  a  world  in  which  proof  has  neither  mean- 
ing nor  existence. 


112  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

HELISSENT. 
Not  in  ours. 

AUDE. 
Not  in  yours. 

HELISSENT. 

You  will  have  to  emerge  from  this  obscurity. 
You  cannot  continue  this  reserve.  You  have  no 
longer  the  right  to  be  silent,  to  try  to  escape.  .  .  . 

AUDE. 
I  do  not  try  to  escape. 

HELISSENT. 

Very  well,  then.  It  is  necessary  we  should  come 
to  some  understanding,  in  all  good  faith.  It  is  no 
longer  possible  either  for  you  or  for  your  mother, 
or  for  the  accused,  or  for  myself  who  harbour  you 
(and  this  I  say  to  you  without  emphasizing  the 
word,  but  simply  because  I  bear  Ivain's  name, 
because  I  am  called  Helissent  de  la  Coldre,  because 
I  direct  the  household  and  am  several  years  older 
than  you),  it  is  no  longer  possible  to  let  this  misery 
drag  on  without  end. 


ACT  II  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  113 

AUDE. 

You  are  right.     To-day  is  the  vigil. 

HELISSEXT. 

Your  stepfather,  in  so  difficult  a  situation,  could 
not  act  with  more  tact,  more  delicacy,  more  patience. 
You  must  admit  this. 

AUDE. 
He,  too,  is  very  supple. 

HELISSENT. 

To  all  your  want  of  consideration  he  has  always 
replied  with  the  most  indulgent  kindness.  He  has 
never  shown  a  trace  of  bitterness  either  in  a  word 
or  a  smile.  Really,  I  have  admired  him.  And 
often  I  have  felt  ill  at  ease — almost  wanting  in 
hospitality.  Now  I  confess  this  restraint  has  be- 
come intolerable  to  me.  Your  mother's  distress 
terrifies  me. 

.  AUDE. 
Poor  mother ! 

[She  is  sunk  in  an  arm-chair,  leaning  back,  all 
huddled  up,  shivering  as   though  the  fever 


114  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  u 

were  returning,  with  one  arm  under  her 
cheek,  looking  through  her  eyelashes,  that 
quiver  as  if  the  pupils  were  being  constantly 
wounded.  The  brief  words  have  an  inde- 
finable inflection  which  is  neither  irony  nor 
pity.  They  seem  to  come  from  that  pro- 
found depth  "  where  one  hears  not  even  the 
beating  of  the  heart."  The  adversary, 
anxious  to  get  to  the  end  of  the  discussion, 
does  not  stop  for  them  and  does  not  inter- 
pret them.  She  goes  on  speaking  in  a  sort 
of  cold  stupor,  and  her  voice  becomes  insin- 
cere. She  herself  realizes  its  insincerity, 
but  cannot  help  it.  She  continues  — 
resolute. 

HELISSENT. 

I  understand  and  I  respect  your  feeling,  I 
repeat  it,  where  it  is  most  faithful,  and  even 
inaccessible.  I  understand  that  the  return  to  the 
home  of  your  memories  should  have  exalted  them, 
and  that,  at  the  approach  of  the  sad  anniversary, 
your  heart  should  bleed.  But  I  have  conquered  my 
scruples,  because  it  seems  to  me  that  in  the  name  of 
these  memories,  for  the  repose  of  that  soul,  this 
suffering  should  be  overcome. 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  115 

AUDE. 
Yes,  yes. 

[Her  voice  now  is  almost  inaudible — the  voice 
of  a  little  crushed  creature  that  no  longer 
knows  how  to  breathe — something  like  that 
gasp  of  helpless  assent  that  the  despairing 
seem  to  oppose  to  vain  consolation,  to 
misunderstood  advice,  to  reproaches  that 
are  not  listened  to.  She  is  there  in  the 
arm-chair,  all  huddled  up,  almost  non- 
existent, like  some  poor  blighted  being. 

HELISSENT. 

I  beg  you,  therefore,  to  give  your  consent  to  thig 
explanation,  which  is  necessary  to  dispel  all  these 
misunderstandings.  One  cannot  imprison  life  in  a 
network  of  enigma,  or  confine  it  in  the  frame  of  an 
old  mirror.  Is  it  not  true  ?  You  agree  ? 

AUDE. 
Yes,  yes. 

HELISSENT. 
There  is  to-day,  it  seems  to  me,  a  presence  that 


u6  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

does  not  oppress  us,  as  you  maintain ;  but,  on  the 
contrary,  comes  to  our  rescue,  encourages,  helps  us. 
If  his  spirit  still  haunts  this  house,  as  you  think,  he 
must  suffer  from  this  disquietude,  this  enmity,  this 
perpetual  anguish.  I  have  heard  his  infinite  kind- 
ness spoken  of  by  the  very  person  whom  you  suspect 
of  a  guilty  heart.  .  .  . 

AUDE. 
Oh,  God ! 

[It  is  like  the  wail  of  one  who  is  about  to  sink, 
forsaken  by  his  own  strength  and  all  human 
help. 

HELISSENT. 

If  to  resign  yourself  at  last  to  the  exigencies 
of  life,  to  the  decorum  of  life,  is  for  your  heart  a 
sacrifice,  make  the  sacrifice  in  memory  of  that  kind- 
ness. Just  think.  To-morrow  is  the  third  anni- 
versary. We  shall  all  be  there  reunited  in  prayer. 
And  then  there  will  be  peace,  harmony  in  the 
restored  home,  a  new  life  will  dawn  for  you,  who 
are  wasting  away,  for  your  brother  who  is  eating  his 
heart  out.  .  .  . 

AUDE. 
Oh,  God!  Oh,  God! 


ACT  II  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  117 

[She  rises  slowly,  her  face  distraught,  her  eyes 

wild,  pressing  her  temples  with  both  hands, 

held  by  a  horror  which  seems  to  have  taken 

the  place  of  her  strength. 

What  have  I  done  ?  What  have  I  become  ?  Why 
must  this  also  be  inflicted  upon  me  ? 

HELISSENT. 
Aude! 

AUDE. 

Am  I  not  yet  sufficiently  broken  ?  It  is  not 
enough  ?  No  truce,  no  help,  no  refuge — nothing. 
And  this  atrocity  is  life — life  that  seemed  so  fresh  in 
me ;  life  I  mourned,  for  the  one  who  lost  it — from 
whom  it  has  gone  for  ever. 

HELISSENT. 
Aude! 

AUDE. 

Ah,  I  am  cold  !  Do  not  be  afraid  if  my  teeth 
begin  to  chatter.  What  can  I  do  ?  Do  not  be 
afraid  if  I  look  at  you  with  these  eyes.  I  have 
forgotten  how  to  close  them.  Some  one  must  seal 
them  for  me. 


Il8  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

HELISSENT. 

What  is  it?  What  is  the  matter  with  you 
now  ? 

AUDB. 

I  live — that  is  what  is  the  matter  with  me. 
I  am  alive ;  and  if  any  one  else  ever  came  to  know 
anything  resembling  what  I  have  known,  she  would 
die,  she  would  give  up  her  soul  without  a  struggle, 
without  a  moan.  But  I  live,  and  I  have  no  longer 
any  incentive  to  live.  I  have  no  longer  anything  to 
believe  in — anything  to  hope  for,  anything  to  save. 
And  even  to  convince  myself  that  I  am  in  the  mud, 
I  shall  have  to  eat  some  of  it — to  fill  my  mouth 
with  it.  .  .  . 

HELISSENT. 

In  the  name  of  Heaven,  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?  Is  it  the  fever  that  is  making  you  wander 
again? 

AUDE. 

Ah,  no !  Do  not  touch  me ;  but  hide  these  flowers 
from  me — hide  these  leaves.  . 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  tig 

HELISSENT. 

You  are  mad.  I  am  really  beginning  to  think 
that  you  are  mad. 

AUDE. 

Well,  I  will  tell  you  something  incredible :  I  am 
not  mad  yet — look  at  me  ! 

\She  straightens  herself  up,  mastering  her  agita- 
tion, as  if  urged  by  a  wave  of  strength  from 
afar.  Her  sister-in-law  is  already  standing 
in  front  of  her,  an  opponent  without  a  mask. 

HELISSENT. 
I  am  looking  at  you. 

AUDE. 

I  am  holding  up  my  head — I  must  hold  it  up,  so 
as  not  to  collapse  suddenly,  like  some  little  old 
woman,  without  age,  without  name.  I  know  now 
that  in  the  look  of  a  human  being  one  can  live 
twenty  years,  fifty  years,  an  eternity  of  shame. 

HELISSENT. 
But  what  do  you  mean  ?     I  am  not  as  patient  as 


120  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  II 

Pierre  Dagon — remember  that.  I  face  little  old 
women  disguised  as  threatening  sphinxes,  and  I  tame 
them. 

AUDE. 

With  what  ?  With  the  double-faced  lie  that  seems 
to  be  and  is  not  ? 

UELISSENT. 
I  tame  them,  I  tell  you. 

AUDE. 

With  what  ?  With  that  too  crafty  hypocrisy,  that 
blends  its  mixtures  of  good  and  evil,  of  falsity  and 
truth,  of  poison  and  balm,  to  excite  itself  and  dupe 
others  ? 

HELISSENT. 

And  what  are  the  others  to  me,  and  what  do 
they  matter  to  me  ?  I  forbid  you  .  .  . 

AUDE. 

What?  To  be  surprised  that  the  cause  of  my 
mother's  husband  should  be  pleaded  to-day  by  her 
daughter-in-law  with  a  sanctimonious  eloquence 
savouring  of  the  pulpit  ? 


ACT  H  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  121 

HELISSENT. 

What  insolence !  How  dare  you  speak  of  venom 
— you,  who  exude  it  every  moment  and  against 
every  one  ;  you,  who  are  always  ready  to  bite  the 
hand  that  fondles  you  ! 

AUDE. 

Why  do  you  fondle  me?  It  is  a  question  I  have 
asked  you  more  than  once.  And  I  have  always  let 
my  arms  hang  down  at  my  side.  I  have  always  been 
suspicious. 

HELISSENT. 

Do  not  boast  of  your  ingratitude  and  your  wicked- 
ness !  I  have  stood  all  your  caprices,  all  your 
whims,  with  a  good  grace  that  you  do  not  deserve. 
I  have  let  you  exhaust  my  patience  too  often.  I 
have  had  enough.  It  will  be  your  fault  if  you  com- 
pel me  to  remember  that,  after  all,  there  is  a  mistress 
here. 

AUDE. 

Legally,  yes.  And  it  is  a  good  thing  for  the 
servants.  But  you  will  not  lead  your  penitent  pil- 
grim to  kneel  on  that  stone,  nor  crawl  over  the  dead 
on  his  knees  like  a  devotee. 


122  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

HELISSENT. 

I  beg  of  you,  I  beg  of  you,  do  not  provoke  me  into 
saying  and  doing  things  we  should  both  of  us  bitterly 
regret  afterwards.  You  do  not  know  me.  Take 
care.  When  I  make  up  my  mind  I  am  like  those 
who  slay,  and  only  sheathe  their  sword  after  having 
struck  the  death-blow. 

AUDE. 

Sword  for  sword.  I  am  ready  to  try  my  strength, 
ready  for  everything.  Look  at  me.  There  is  a 
Judge  above  before  whom  I  am  nothing ;  but  I  will 
never  be  a  servant  where  you  are  mistress.  There 
is  a  Judge  more  holy  than  I,  and  you  have  dared  to 
invoke  Him,  to  cover  a  thing  that  cannot  be  acknow- 
ledged. 

HEUSSENT. 

You  have  the  likeness  of  death  on  you.  You  will 
die  of  your  venom. 

AUDE. 

Yes,  I  am  all  frozen  ;  but  I  know  one  cannot  die 
of  horror,  since  I  am  still  standing.  You  have  dared 
to  offer  for  the  peace  of  that  soul — what  ?  the  re- 
peated offences  of  that  merciless  guest ! 


Act  tt  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  123 

HBLISSENT. 
What  more  are  you  going  to  insinuate  ? 

AUDE. 

Peace,  harmony;  a  new  life  to  give  warmth  to 
shame. 

HELISSENT. 

Must  I  lay  hands  on  you,  then  ?     Must  I  tear  from 
your  throat  this  fresh  slander  ? 

[Infuriated,  she  makes  a  gesture  as  though  about 
to  seize  by  her  shoulders  the  girl,  who  recoils, 
looking  more  ghastly  than  a  bloodless  spectre. 

AUDE. 

Do  not  touch  me  !     Be  careful !     You  are  touching 
death. 

HELISSENT. 
Tell  me  everything,  then.     Speak — I  insist. 

AUDE. 

I  can  control  my  speech,  but  not  my  heart.    With 
the  guest  .  .  . 

[Her  voice  breaks,  as  she  clenches  her  teeth. 


THE  HONEYSUCKLE 
HELISSENT. 


Well? 


AUDE. 

With  the  guest  has  there  not  crept  in  a  lover  ? 
[She  has  spoken  in  low  and  hurried  tones.  Tlie 
other  does  not  seem  less  ghastly,  but  the  whole 
foundation  of  her  beauty  hardens  like  the 
countenance  of  a  tyrant  who  cannot  strike, 
because  he  has  at  hand  neither  weapon  nor 
executioner.  They  both  of  them  gasp  in  the 
silence. 

HELISSENT. 

Is  that   a  treacherous  question  —  a   suspicion  —  a 
deliberate  trap  ? 

AUDE. 
A  certainty. 

HELISSENT. 

A  certainty  in   this  world  where   proof   neither 
exists  nor  counts  ? 

AUDE. 

Let  it  be  sufficient  that  I  know,  that  I  have  heard, 
that  I  have  seen. 


ACT  II  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  125 

HELISSENT. 
Where  ?     How  ? 

[She  leans  towards  the  accuser,  who,  writhing  at 
her  own  misery,  ceases  to  look  at  her. 

AUDE. 

Horrible  !  Life  endured  repeats  itself — imitates 
its  own  terrors.  Hideous  destiny  plays  the  same 
part  twice,  and  all  will  be  as  before !  But  who  can 
answer  me  one  question  before  I  die  ? 

HELISSENT.  • 
Answer  me  quickly — I  insist.     Where  ?     How  ? 

AUDE. 

And  one  day  it  seemed  to  me  I  was  getting  quite 
near  the  secret  of  love. 

HELISSENT. 
Where  ?     How  ? 

AUDE.  1 
Not  of  yours  !     Not  of  yours ! 


1 2g  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  U 

HELISSENT. 
Answer — I  insist. 

{Imperiously  she  comes  towards  her,  and  seizes 
her  by  the  wrists. 

AUDE. 
I  have  heard  all — I  have  seen  all. 

HELISSENT. 

What?  Where?  You  do  not  know;  you  are 
wandering— always  deluded,  drunk  with  dreams  of 
infamy. 

AUDE. 

Let  me  go.  I  have  a  loathing  for  you  and  myself. 
I  have  spied  ;  I  have  followed  ;  I  have  listened.  I 
know  all  the  hidden  places.  I  know  all  the  inner- 
most recesses,  all  the  shadows.  Last  night—ah,  let 
go  of  me ! 

HELISSENT. 
No — tell  me !     Have  some  shame ! 

AUDE. 
Where  were  you  last  night  with  him?     At  the 


ACT  II  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  127 

bottom  of  the   steps  of  the    Dolphins,  under  the 
trellis  of  Gloriande.  .  .  . 

HELISSENT. 
Are  you  not  ashamed  ? 

AUDE. 

Yes,  I  am  ashamed.  This  is  what  you  have  all 
made  of  me.  The  little  blood  that  is  left  in  me  I  carry 
with  fear.  One  comes  to  that,  one  knows  that,  one 
grows  like  that,  and  one  never  ceases  to  die. 

HELISSENT. 

You  have  been  dreaming — you  have  been  dreaming. 
Do  you  hear  ? 

AUDE. 
Let  go  of  me ! 

HELISSENT. 

You  have  been  dreaming — you  are  delirious,  you 
wicked  madwoman !  And  you  shall  swear  to 
me  ... 

AUDE. 
Let  go  of  me  !  let  go  of  me !  I  tell  you ! 


I28  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

[They  are  face  to  face,  breath  to  breath,  as  in 

a  violent  struggle.     AuDE/rees  herself. 
[IvAiN   comes  in.     HELISSENT  steps  aside   and 

throws   her  head   back,    showing  her  white 

teeth  in  a  little,  insincere  laugh. 

IVATN. 

What  is  it  ?  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Helis- 
sent  ?  Aude !  what  is  it  ? 

AUDE. 

Nothing,  nothing,  Ivain.  Do  not  be  frightened. 
Helissent  wanted  to  take  me  with  her,  for  me  to 
meet  Monsieur  Dagon,  and  she  was  trying  to  drag 
me.  I  resisted.  That  is  all. 

IVAIN. 
Had  you  not  already  consented  ? 

AUDB. 

Yes.  But  why  should  I  go  to  meet  him?  I 
prefer  to  receive  him  here,  as  I  said  before  to  our 
mother,  especially  as  I  don't  feel  quite  well  yet,  and 
it  is  better  I  should  not  tire  myself. 


ACT  II  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  129 

IVAIN. 

Certainly,  little  sister.     You  are  right.     Do  you 
not  think  so,  Helissent,  my  love  ? 

HELISSENT. 

Why,  yes,  yes  !     I   do  not   insist  !     It   was   not 
serious  —  it  was  just  for  fun. 

AUDE. 

You  know  quite  well,  Ivain,  how  fond  she  is  of 
playing  and  teasing.  .  .  . 

[The  young  man  looks  at  his  wife  tenderly. 


How  strange  you  look  in  this  light  ! 

AUDF, 

Does  she  not  ? 

HELISSENT. 
Strange  ?     In  what  way  ?< 


If  Richard  Wagner  could  see  you,  he  would  recog- 


130  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  II 

nize  the  living  image  of  one  of  those  Khine  Maidens 
that  float  through  his  music. 

HELISSENT. 
Woglinde  ?    Flosshilde  ? 

IVAIN. 

All  three. 

AUDE. 

And  the  Gold,  too. 

HELISSENT. 
Good-bye,  Aude,  until  later. 

AUDE. 
In  a  new  life. 

ITAIN. 

You  are  going,  Helissent?  Stay  a  little  longer. 
Do  you  not  feel  how  harmonious  this  room  is  ?  It 
is  so  pleasing  to  me.  One  hardly  knows  whether  it 
has  walls  or  branches,  curtains  or  leaves. 


ACT  n  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  131 

HELISSENT. 

Child,  child !  this  is  not  the  time  to  linger.  Life 
is  rushing  onwards. 

IVAIN. 

Come  into  the  chapel,  towards  seven,  Helissent. 
I  will  play  the  "  vesperal "  on  the  organ.  But  I  should 
so  much  like  to  see  you  before  then.  Where  are  you 
going  ? 

HELISSENT. 
I  do  not  know. 

[His  eyes  follow  her  whilst  she  goes  out  with 
her  swaying  gait.  His  sister  takes  him  by 
the  hand. 

AUDE. 
How  you  love  her ! 

IVAIN. 

Ah,  I  can  hardly  tell  whether  my  love  gives  me 
joy  or  pain  !  Do  you  understand  ?  Why  should  that 
swing  of  her  body  on  her  supple  limbs  be  able  to  hurt 
me  so  sometimes?  When  I  look  at  her  I  feel  her 
beauty  as  a  shadow  over  me  ;  yet  it  is  a  shadow  that 
gives  me  no  repose.  It  works  on  me  and  stimulates 


I3»  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  » 

me  until  I  feel,  if  I  do  not  want  to  lose  it,  I 
must  complete  it,  and  I  do  not  know  how  to 
do  it. 

AUDK. 
You  love  her  so  much  ? 

[She  lets  herself  drop  on  the  cushions,  still  hold- 
ing the  hand  of  her  brother,  who  sits  at  her 
feet.     She  questions  him  with  an  ill-concealed 
anxiety. 
Tell  me. 

IVAIN. 

I  love  her,  little  sister ;  but  I  love  you,  too,  very 
much. 

AUDE. 
You  could  not  live  without  her  ?    Tell  me. 


IVAIN. 

You  are  jealous. 

AUDE. 

You  could  not  imagine  your  life  changing, 
becoming  single  again,  steeped  in  music  and 
melancholy  ? 


ACT  II  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  133 

IVAIN. 

But  why  ? 

AUDB. 
Suppose  she  were  to  go  away,  to  leave  ? 

IVAIN. 
For  what  reason  ?    How  could  she  ? 

AUDB. 
She  does  not  seem  to  you  remote,  distant  ? 

IVAIN. 
I  fold  her  in  my  arms. 

AUDB. 
She  is  childless. 

IVAIN. 

But  what  are  you  saying,  Aude  ?     You  are  blush- 
ing at  it  yourself. 

AUDE. 
And  suppose  she  were  to  die  ? 


134 


THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  il 


IVAIN. 

Ah,  no !     I  should  disappear— I   should  wish  to 
die,  too. 

AUDE. 

You  love  her  so  much  ? 

IVAIN. 
Yes.     Do  not  be  jealous. 

AUDE. 

You  are  right.     To  wish  to  love  means  to  prepare 

oneself  for  death.     Such  is  my  love.     And  I  pity 

you.  Ah  !  why  has  your  hand  not  sufficient  strength  ? 

[Nervously  she  feels  the  palm  of  his  hand  and 

his  fingers. 

IVAIN. 

Do  you  not  feel?    It  is  of  jointed  iron,  like  a 
gauntlet. 

AUDE. 
For  the  organ. 

IVAIN. 
But  what  are  you  talking  about  ? 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  135 

[He  is  impatient  and  agitated,  overcome  by  the 
indefinable  phantoms  she  seems  to  create  by 
breathing  the  fragments  into  his  soul. 

AUDE. 

I  have  some  news,  sweet  news,  for  you.  I  have 
seen  our  father  once  more.  I  fell  asleep  for  a  mo- 
ment, my  head  on  his  knees.  How  like  you  he  was  ! 
Your  voice  is  clear:  his  was  like  it,  only  muffled. 
And  he  had  but  a  trace  of  ashes  on  his  temples. 


You  want  to  make  me  cry  ? 

AUDK. 

No,  brother,  no.  Not  one  tear  —  not  one.  He 
spoke  to  me  of  you,  thus  :  "  You  think  he  is  a 
weakling  ?  But  do  you  not  remember  how  strong  he 
became  when  he  wanted  to  carry  me  from  the  bed  to 
the  arm-chair  or  from  the  arm-chair  to  the  bed,  whilst 
Pierre  in  a  corner,  with  his  back  turned,  cleansed 
the  morphine  syringe  ?  He  used  to  say  :  '  Gently, 
gently,  dearest  father.  Put  your  arm  round  my 
neck;  lean  well  on  my  shoulder.  Do  not  be 
frightened.  Let  yourself  go  with  all  your  weight. 


I36  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  H 

I  am  holding  you — I  am  holding  you.  Do  not  be 
afraid  of  clinging  to  my  neck.  Let  your  legs  hang  ; 
let  yourself  go  ;  and  I  can  lift  you,  carry  you.  You 
are  lighter  than  yesterday.' " 

IVAIN. 
Sister,  why  do  you  torment  me  ? 

AUDE. 

Yes,  call  me  that.  I  want  no  other  name  from 
you.  I  want  mine  to  be  forgotten.  My  beloved 
brother !  My  heart  overflows  when  I  call  you  that. 
Brother !  you  are  my  brother. 

IVAIN. 

You  have  no  longer  a  grudge  against  me.  then? 
You  forgive  me  ? 

AUDE. 

Give  me  your  hands.  You,  too,  if  I  have  said 
any  bitter  words  to  you,  you  must  forgive  me,  too. 

IVAIN. 

Ah !  I  thought  I  had  lost  you,  and  I  find  you 
again! 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  13? 

AUDE. 

You  must  find  me.  Never  doubt  it ;  be  certain  that 
I  am  waiting  for  you. 

IVAIN. 
Where  ? 

AUDE. 

I  cannot  tell  you  yet.  If  you  knew,  you  would 
perhaps  j*un  there  before  me,  and  I  must  spare 
you. 

IVAIN. 

Sister,  poor  little  sister,  why  do  you  wander  like 
this? 

AUDE. 

You  think  I  am  raving?  But  I  have  here  a 
thought  straighter  than  a  naked  blade,  sharper  than 
a  stiletto.  And  if  I  had  to  compare  it  to  anything  I 
should  say  that  it  is  worthy  of  the  "  Misericordia  " 
with  the  gold  hilt,  which  belonged  to  Anthiaume  de 
la  Coldre,  the  Seneschal,  and  was  so  precious  to  our 
father. 

IVAIN. 

Who  can  have  stolen  it  ? 


138  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  H 

AUDB. 
I  know. 

IVAIN. 

If  that  were  true,  what  would  I  not  give  to  have 
it  back  ? 

AUDE. 

What  would  you  do  with  it  ?  Would  you  know 
how  to  use  it,  if  necessary  ? 

IVAIN. 
It  is  a  relic. 

AUDE, 

Are  there  no  relics  that  kill  ?  Later  on,  I  want  to 
go  with  you  into  that  room ;  I  want  to  touch  with 
you  all  those  relics,  to  kneel  with  you  on  his  fald- 
stool, brother  and  sister,  side  by  side.  Are  you 
willing  ? 

IVAIN. 
Yes. 

AUDE. 

There,  and  there  only,  was  I  able  to  define  the 
thought  that  rose  in  me  and  decide  what  is  right, 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  139 

IVAIN. 
What? 

AtJDE. 

Something  must  be  done. 

IVAIX. 
What  kind  of  thing  ? 

[He  is  shaking  with  anguish. 

AUDE. 
A  thing  that  one  must  either  do  or  undergo. 

IVAIN. 

Sister,  sister,  you  frighten  me.     I  thought  all  that 
was  done  with. 

AUDE. 

Is  that  how  you  would  answer  me  if  I  were  to  call 
to  you — if  I  were  to  utter  my  despairing  cry  ? 

IVAIN. 
I  am  afraid  to  understand ;  I  am  at  a  loss. 


MO  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

AUDE. 

You  are  afraid.  Always  the  same  word  !  Who- 
ever brought  us  into  this  world  made  a  grave  mistake. 
It  is  you  who  have  the  soul  of  a  girl,  I  who  have 
the  soul  of  a  man.  "  Prick  your  face  and  besmear 
it  with  blood,  you  white-livered  child  !  "  Some  one 
shouted  that  out,  once  upon  a  time,  centuries  ago. 

IVAIN. 
What  do  you  want  of  me  ?     Speak ! 

[He  gets  up,  pale,  quivering.  She  rises  also,  on 
the  verge  of  being  carried  away  by  her  passion. 
A  t  that  moment,  lifting  the  drapery,  LAURENCE 
DAGON  appears. 

AUDE. 

No,  I  must  spare  you.  I  can  do  what  you  never 
could.  But  life,  like  the  guest,  will  be  merciless. 
Look  at  our  mother !  Return  thanks  to  her,  Ivain. 

IVAIN. 

Mother,  Aude  is  not  quite  well  yet. 


ACT  if  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  141 

LAURENCE. 
I  was  coming  to  ask  .  .  . 

AUDE. 

It  is  the  hour.  Is  Monsieur  Dagon  behind  the 
door  ?  Let  him  come  in. 

IVAIN. 
Mother,  Aude  is  still  agitated. 

AUDE. 

Do  not  believe  it.  I  feel  rested;  I  have  slept; 
I  am  better ;  I  have  no  more  fever.  "We  must  hurry. 
As  Helissent  said  :  "  Life  is  rushing  onwards." 

[Her  brother  makes  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

IVAIN. 

Well,  well,  so  be  it.  One  cannot  go  on  living 
like  this. 

AUDE. 
Is  Monsieur  Dagon  there  ? 


I4a  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  II 

LAURENCE. 
He  is  not  there ;  he  is  waiting  to  be  called. 

[She  speaks  in  a  slow,  dull  voice,  with  something 
contracted  and  fixed  in  her  countenance,  as  if 
she  bore  in  herself  the  fascination  of  fate 
invincible. 

AUDE. 

Ivain,  will  you  go  and  tell  him  ?  Will  you  bring 
him  here  yourself  ? 

IVAIN. 
Very  well,  I  will  go. 

[He  leaves  the  room,  his  head  bent  in  anger. 

AUDE. 

Really,  Mother,  you  might  have  brought  him  in 
yourself,  since  you  are  only  here  to  further  destiny. 

LAURENCE. 

Oh,  child,  child,  I  no  longer  know  what  is  right  or 
what  is  wrong.  I  do  not  know  what  should  be  done 
or  what  should  not  be  done.  I  have  prayed  to  God 
without  hope ;  I  have  probed  in  my  heart  without 


ACT  n  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  j43 

pity,  the  misery  of  years;  I  have  torn  the  doubts 
from  my  mind  without  being  able  to  kill   them. 
I  have  drained  myself  of  all  the  tears  that  were 
blinding  me,  as  one's  blood  is  drained  in  the  dust. 
I  have  awakened  each  morning  with  a  start,  thinking 
I  have  fallen  into  an  unfathomable  pit ;  and  at  night 
more  than  once  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  I  have 
fallen   again,   my   eyes  wide  open,  far  lower  still. 
Child,  child,  nothing  matters  to  me,  and   nothing 
counts.     My  eyes  must  be  filled  with  terror,  with 
the  look  that  knows  the  inevitable  and  cannot  even 
turn  away  its  glance.     What  have  I  done  ?    What  is 
happening?     What  other  misfortune  is  preparing? 
What  new  disaster?     What  is  this  horror  that  is 
returning?     Must  I  inflict  more  suffering ?    I  know 
no  more ;  I  can  discern  no  longer.     I  do  not  know 
what  I  can  do  to  try  to  save  myself.     I  do  not  know 
what  I  can  do  to  find  myself  again.     I  am  suffering 
intensely  in  my  head  and  my  breast ;  I  am  pierced 
through  and  through  by  my  own  smothered  cries ;  I 
am  torn  to  pieces  and  yet  am  still  alive,  like  the  prey 
abandoned  by  the  satisfied  beast.    Is  an  evil  going  to 
end?  Is  an  evil  going  to  begin?  I  beg  you— I  implore 
you ;  yet  what  words  I  could  hear  from  you,  what 
help  I  could  hope  to  receive  from  your  hands,  I  do 
not  know. 


I44  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  II 

AUDE. 
Mother,  before  you  I  can  but  remain  silent. 

LAURENCE. 

I  am  trembling ;  I  can  hardly  stand  on  my  feet ; 
it  seems  as  if  my  bones  were  giving  way.  You  can- 
not understand.  If  he  comes  in  here,  if  he  stays 
with  you,  if  you  talk  together,  I  do  not  think,  I  do 
not  believe,  that  I  can  stand  the  strain  of  waiting. 
My  heart  will  burst ;  you  cannot  understand.  It  is 
worse,  it  is  far  worse  than  when  as  a  child  they  had 
to  operate  on  you,  and  I  heard,  boiling  in  my  own 
brain,  the  water  in  which  the  surgeon's  instruments 
were  being  sterilized ;  and  the  bed  of  torture  was 
there  with  its  straps  and  its  wheels,  and  your  poor 
little  face  disappeared  under  the  padded  mask  of 
ether.  You  do  not  remember ;  you  do  not  know. 
But  it  is  much  worse — much,  much  worse. 

AUDE. 

How  ?  Why  ?  Are  you  not  going  to  bring  in  the 
faultless  guest  who  will  convince  me  of  my  injustice, 
force  me  to  bend  my  head,  perhaps  to  fall  on  my 
knees  and  kiss  his  hand  ?  Were  you  not  certain  of 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  M5 

this  ?     Are  you  not  certain  ?     Are  you  not  sending 
him  to  me  for  an  act  of  absolution  and  peace  ? 

LAURENCE. 

Ah !  I  am  not  arguing— I  am  not  discussing— I 
am  trembling.  I  do  not  know  how  I  look,  but  all 
my  life  within  me  is  blanched  with  terror.  And  just 
as  I  have  no  more  tears,  I  believe  I  have  no  more 
blood.  I  beg  of  you— I  beg  of  you.  Do  not  see  him; 
do  not  speak  to  him.  Abstain,  I  beg  of  you  !  Have 
pity  on  me ! 

AUDE. 

And  who  proposed  this  to  me  ? — asked  it  of  me  ? 

forced  it  upon  me,  even  ? 

LAURENCE. 

I  have  thought  better  of  it.  I  repent.  I  am  out 
of  my  mind.  We  are  all  out  of  our  minds.  No,  it 
must  not  be.  What  good  can  come  of  it?  It  is 
enough  to  look  at  you  ;  enough  to  breathe  this  atmo- 
sphere, to  see  this  light,  to  feel  that  you  are  living, 
and  all  these  things  living  round  you.  No,  it  is  not 
possible.  I  beg  of  you.  I  am  going  away.  I  will 
take  him  with  me.  You  will  see  us  no  more— either 


I46  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  11 

of  us.  This  very  night  I  will  leave — I  will  make 
him  leave.  Before  dawn,  before  dawn  we  shall  he 
far  away,  at  the  end  of  the  world.  I  swear  it  to 
you. 

AUDE. 
Mother ! 

[Her  voice,  her  appearance,  reveal  such  an  ex- 
haustion of  all  her  being  that  the  mother 
shudders  as  if  confronted  by  another  unfore- 
seen terror,  by  some  indefinable  monster 
suddenly  springing  up  there  ready  to  seize 
her. 

LAURENCE. 
"What  is  it  ? 

AUDE. 
It  is  true,  then  ? 

LAURENCE. 
What? 

AUDE. 

That  which  I  thought  against  you,  that  which  I 
still  think  against  you,  that  which  suddenly  bursts 
forth  from  your  frenzy. 


ACT  n  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ,4? 

LAURENCE. 
What? 

AUDE. 
That  which  you  acknowledge. 

LAURENCE. 
What  do  I  acknowledge  ? 

AUDE. 
Oh,  it  is  horrible. 

[IVAIN  raises  the  curtain  and  PIBRRE  DAGON 
fteps  into  the  room.  They  stay  for  a 
moment  side  by  side.  LAURENCE  turns 
round  as  before  an  apparition  which  para- 
lyses her.  She  cannot  speak;  she  does  not 
seem  to  breathe.  The  daughter  lowers  her 
voice. 

Look  at  them ! 

[And  into  her  face  seems  to  come  back  the 
expression  she  had  in  the  round  hall, 
when,  at  the  entrance  of  the  guest,  she 
retreated  towards  the  door,  that  evening  in 
April. 


I48  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  II 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

Thank  you,  Aude,  for  having  allowed  me  to  come 
and  see  you.     How  do  you  feel  ? 

AUDE. 

Well,    very    well.       Gome    in,    come    in!       Sit 
down ! 

[The  guest  takes  a  few  short  steps. 

Good-bye,  mother ;  good-bye,  Ivain. 

[The  young  man  comes  towards  his  mother  and 
accompanies  her  to  the  door.  Whilst  he  lifts 
up  the  tapestry,  she  turns  round  to  look  at 
her  husband  and  her  daughter,  who  are 
standing  face  to  face,  and  she  sees  AUDE 
smile.  The  hangings  drop.  They  are 
alone. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
You  are  better,  then  ? 

AUDE. 

Yes,  quite  well,  father  of  my  soul.     Come,  come ! 
do  not  be  afraid  of  crushing  the  dowers. 


ACT  II  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  149 

PIEEKE  DAGON. 
I  shall  always  crush  as  few  flowers  as  possible. 

AUDE. 

Ah,  really?  Yes,  I  know.  It  was  the  sweet 
Clariel,  the  Swallow,  who  decorated  my  room  as  one 
decks  a  church  for  the  great  festivals.  Moreover, 
this  is  a  great  day. 

[She  still  keeps  a  mocking  tone,  alternately  cold 
and  ardent.  Something  sharp  and  bitter 
is  in  her ;  something  keen  and  prompt 
that  gives  her  the  air  of  a  fearless 
persecutor. 

PIEERE  DAQON. 

Long  desired,  long  waited  for,  dear  Audel  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  happy  I  am  to  be  near  you, 
who  have  been  for  so  long  my  little  wild  and 
loving  friend,  the  little  sprite  of  the  hanging 
gardens  who  brought  me  some  of  the  most  delightful 
hours  of  my  life. 

[He  is  circumspect,  as  one  who  is  groping  his 
way,  not  knowing  yet  what  means  to  employ. 


ISO  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  II 

But  he  keeps  his   voice  in  its  most  natural 
tones,  albeit  sometimes  too  flute-like. 

AUDE. 

Am  I  still  the  same?  Do  you  recognize  me? 
Perhaps  a  drop  of  dew  still  lingers  in  the  palm  of 
each  of  my  hands.  Am  I  the  same  ? 

PIEBEE  DAGON. 

Just  the  same,  under  this  curious  reflected  light, 
that  reminds  me  a  little  of  the  light  shimmering 
through  the  maiden-hair  fern  in  the  lair  of  the  Old 
Mandrague,  where  we  used  to  hear  the  stalactites 
playing  a  little  sonata  drop  by  drop  as  on  a  tiny 
organ  of  blown  glass.  Do  you  remember  ? 


AUDE. 

What  a  memory !  It  is  strange,  this  light.  To- 
day,  •very  one  who  has  come  in  here  has  said  : 
"  What  a  weird  light ! "  We  are  in  the  depths ;  we 
are  in  a  pit.  Perhaps,  without  knowing  it,  we  are 
like  things  thrown  up  by  the  sea — the  wrecked  and 
the  drowned. 


:: 
[SJ*~m,t.i-.~±rU?..mHtfi 


rn  to  hrip  JOB  to . 


AOB. 
ft—  I  kMv  ft!    I  fev«  «a  •? 


It  k  kere.     I  q«Mt   i  ii  ml  §L     It 


--:  5-.  e    :it  ,_.  :     :  -  _-;_.: : 


Al 
BmDy? 


152  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

AtTDE. 

Ah  !     I  thought  it  frightened  you  rather,  that  it 
reminded  you  of  another. 


PIKRRE  DAGON. 
Another  ? 

AUDB. 
The  smile  on  the  lips  of  your  dying  friend. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
My  friend  ? 

AUDE. 

Yes,  your  friend — my  father.  Was  he  not  the 
companion  of  your  youth  ? — the  only  brother  of  your 
soul? 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
Certainly. 

AUDE. 

What  ?  You  have  not  in  your  voice  a  spark  of 
love  ?  You  haven't  a  sigh  of  regret  ? 


ACT  II  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  153 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

Why  should  I  lessen,  by  untimely  demonstrations, 
a  sentiment  kept  unblemished  within  me?  What 
love  can  stand  being  measured  ? 

AUDE. 

Is  that  not  one  of  his  sayings  ?  I  seem  to  recog- 
nize it. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
I  treasure  still  higher  ones. 

AUDE. 

I  have  heard  him  say,  too :  "  Friendship  is  a  gift  of 
life  one  bestows  standing,  and  that  should  be  received 
on  bended  knees." 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
He  was  worthy  of  it. 

AUDE. 

But  does  one  not  also  receive  on  bended  knees  the 
coup  de  grdce  ? 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
Aude,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  .  .  . 


IJ4  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

AUDE. 

Yes,  talk  to  me  about  him.  I  must  hear  you 
speak  of  him,  and,  above  all,  of  that  last  smile  you 
set  on  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  on  the  clenched  jaw 
which  never  loosened  again.  Look  at  me — look  at 
me.  I  am  imitating  him  without  meaning  to. 

[She  is  so  entirely  obsessed  by  her  father's  image 
that  for  a  few  moments  she  seems  to  be  living 
through  his  convulsive  agonies. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
But  what  madness  is  this  of  yours? 

AUDE. 

You,  too— you,  too !  Without  meaning  to  do  it, 
you  imitate  him  when  asleep. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
What  fiend  has  got  hold  of  you  ?    Stop,  Aude. 

AUDE. 

I  have  seen  you  asleep,  and  I  thought  you  would 
sleep  no  more — that  at  the  end  of  some  white  passage 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  155 

you  had  killed  sleep,  like  the  Thane  of  Glamis,  the 
Thane  of  Cawdor. 

PIEKBE  DAGON. 

Why  do  you  elude  me  ?  Come  here,  Aude.  Give 
me  your  two  hands. 

[Seeing  that  he  is  coming  towards  her,  she 
swerves,  avoids  him,  and  steps  back  to  elude 
his  touch. 

AUDE. 

"  Glamis  has  murdered  sleep,  and  therefore  Cawdor 
shall  sleep  no  more."  But  do  not  tire  yourself.  You 
are  already  panting  a  little,  and  your  lips  are  grey 
as  if  you  had  eaten  ashes.  If  some  one  were  to  come 
in  he  would  think  we  were  playing  some  childish 
games,  like  puss-in-the-corner. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

Enough.  Do  not  prolong  this  ghastly  farce.  It 
is  you  who  feed  upon  ashes. 

AUDE. 

Very  well.  "We  are  two  then,  you  and  I  ?  Keep 
calm  and  sit  down.  It  does  not  interest  you 


156  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

to   know  what  shows  in  your  face  when   you  are 
asleep  ? 

PIEREE  DAGON. 
Where  have  you  seen  me  asleep  ? 

AUDE. 

Sit  down  :  I  will  tell  you.  Out  there,  on  the  stone 
seat,  near  the  sun-dial,  in  the  heat  of  the  day,  at  the 
hour  of  the  siesta.  You  were  tired  ;  you  were  tired 
from  having  done  too  much,  and  still  wanting  to  do 
more.  You  had  come  to  the  end  of  your  strength, 
and  you  would  not  acknowledge  it.  When  you  were 
alone  you  immediately  collapsed.  I  was  watching 
you. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
You  did  that  ? 

AUDE. 

I  thought  you  were  waiting  for  some  prey.  But  it 
did  not  come.  The  shadow  of  your  head  lengthened 
on  the  dial  that  has  lost  its  hand.  Nodding  a  little 
to  the  right,  a  little  to  the  left,  it  seemed  to  mark 
an  hour  here,  an  hour  there.  All  hours  wound,  but 
only  one  kills.  You  know  it.  At  last,  your  head 


ACT  n  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  157 

sank  and  marked  an  hour  which  I  remember.  You 
were  dozing — I  watched  you.  You  were  in  my 
power.  I  once  saw  a  diver  rise  suddenly  to  the 
surface,  having  lost  his  leaden  shoes,  and  looking 
like  a  dripping  monster.  It  was  like  that :  that 
some  one  rose  in  your  sleep  ;  that  other  man,  that 
monster  living  within  you.  It  was  horrible  ;  and  he 
was  not  new  to  me  :  I  knew  him. 

[He  tries  to  break  the  evil  spell  by  a  burst  of 
forced  hilarity. 


PIERKE  DAQON. 

Oh,  what  an  ugly  story  in  exchange  for  all  those 
wonderful  ones  I  used  to  tell  you.  You  are  un- 
grateful, Aude.  But  I  want  to  be  your  healer, 
as  I  was  then,  the  interpreter  of  your  thoughts.  I 
must  cleanse  your  imagination  by  a  sun-cure,  although 
("  I  am  really  beginning  to  be  tired  of  the  sun.")  I 
can  see  you  stretched  for  hours  on  the  warm  stone  at 
the  foot  of  that  old  dismantled  sun-dial. 


AUDE. 
What  a  false  laugh  ! 


158  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  u 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

How  I  yearn  for  your  old  smile !  It  was  not 
crucified.  However,  it  will  come  back  to  you.  Give 
me  your  hands  that  I  may  exorcise  you. 


AUDE. 

In  my  imagination,  I  see  yours,  severed  from  the 
arms,  reflected  in  a  mirror,  in  the  depths  of  a 
mirror. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
I  know  that  story,  too. 

AUDE. 

Then  you  know  that  I  had  already  seen  the 
hideous  expression  of  that  man,  his  shrunken  and 
ghastly  look,  peering  over  those  two  dexterous  hands 
that  prepared  the  needle  for  the  daily  injection  of 
morphia  prescribed  to  the  patient. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
Aude,  there  is  nothing  here  to  justify  your  foolish 


ACT  II  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  159 

excitement.  There  is  no  one  here  to  make  you  keep 
up  that  cruel  attitude,  which,  by  a  perversion, 
frequent  enough  at  your  age,  you  have  forced  upon 
yourself.  Do  not  persist  in  warping  your  soul  that 
used  to  be  so  sincere.  Think  of  me  as  a  discerning 
doctor  and  also  as  a  true  friend.  We  are  alone  here, 
we  two. 

AUDE. 
You  think  we  are  alone  2 


PIERRE  DAGON. 
It  seems  so  to  me. 

AUDE. 
You  did  not  see  him  enter  ? 


PIERRE  DAGON. 
Stop  playing  on  my  nerves  ! 

AUDE. 
He  was  near  you.    It  was  not  my  brother ;  it  was 


160  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

he.  I  said  to  my  mother :  "  Look  at  them  ! "  You 
did  not  hear  ?  The  same  force  of  treason  had  joined 
again  host  to  guest. 

PIEERB  DAGON. 
Do  not  go  beyond  all  bounds,  child. 

AUDB. 

But  he  is  sitting  there,  with  that  high  forehead 
dominating  all  the  sadness  that  hollows  his  cheeks 
and  emaciates  his  face.  Do  not  turn  away ;  he  is 
there. 

[She  has  the  quiver  of  hallucination  in  her  eye- 
lids, and  the  voice  of  her  belief  creates  a 
phantom  in  the  dreary  glaucous  shadow. 


PIERKK  DAGON. 
Ah  !  he  pities  you ! 

AUDE. 

He,  standing,  bestowed  upon  you  the  gift  of  life. 
To  hasten  the  end  of  the  one  they  crucified,  they  broke 
his  knees.  Thus  he  rises  no  more. 


THE  HONEYSUCKLE  161 


PIERRE  DAGON. 
Be  silent !     You  are  odious  ! 


AUDE. 

You  will  always  see  him.  He  is  there  in  the  midst 
of  your  life,  with  that  ineffaceable  smile  you  sculptured 
on  the  jaws  of  stone,  there  like  the  statue  of  that 
warrior  of  ^Egina,  who  falls  yet  smiles  for  ever.  He 
looks  at  you  ;  he  is  sane ;  he  understands ;  he  knows  ; 
he  is  convinced. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
Be  silent,  be  silent !  or  I  will  crush  you. 

[He    leaps   forward   and    threatens    her.     The 
other,  undaunted,  fills  with  agony  the  stifling 


AUDE. 

No.  Look  at  him.  With  a  start  he  throws  his 
head  back  again  and  again.  He  is  stiffening,  pierced 
by  his  suffering.  He  rises,  straightens  himself,  falls 
His  breath  no  longer  passes  through  his  clenched 


162  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

teeth.  The  heart  beats  once  more,  stops,  becomes 
empty.  You  have  killed  him !  Pierre  Dagon,  you 
have  killed  him  ! 

[Beside  himself,  ghastly  and  trembling,  he  springs 
towards  the  accuser  and  seizes  her  by  the 
wrists,  shaking  her  violently. 


PIERRE  DAGON. 

Be  silent,  be  silent !  I  refuse  to  hear  your  in- 
famies. You  are  so  mad  you  should  be  gagged. 
Your  frenzies  will  lead  you  into  an  asylum.  We 
have,  your  mother  and  I,  enough  authority  still  to 
enforce  the  necessary  measure.  There  is  no  other 
way  of  bringing  back  to  reason  a  sullen  and  fierce 
slanderer,  her  own  and  every  one  else's  enemy,  hence- 
forth unworthy  of  compassion.  You  hear  me?  I 
order  you  to  be  silent. 

[She  frees  herself  fiercely. 


AUDE. 

You  have  almost  sprained  my  wrists.  You  are  a 
coward  ;  but  do  not  imagine  that  I  shall  faint.  You 
are  lost.  You  can  never  assume  again  the  mask  of 


ACT  it  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  163 

a  skilful  tempter.  You  will  have  henceforth  the  face 
of  the  other,  until  the  hour  of  death — the  face  of  the 
murderer. 

PIEREE  DAGON. 

But,    madwoman,    where    is    your    proof?     The 
shadow  even  of  a  proof,?    At  least,  a  clue  ? 

AUDE. 
A  testimony. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
That  of  your  delirium. 

AUDE. 

That  of  my  soul  was  sufficient.     For,  through  the 
soul  alone,  I  had  discovered  the  truth. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

Out  of  an  impure  dream  you   had  fashioned  an 
abominable  lie. 

AUDE. 
From  the  first  evening  of  our  return,  when  th« 


1 64  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

first  lamp  was  lit,  the  soul  of  this  house  was  alight 
with  this  truth,  alight  from  the  depth  of  the  tomb  to 
the  height  of  the  roof,  as  though  to  herald  a  resur- 
rection. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
And  is  that  sufficient  ? 

AUDE. 

No,  that  is  not  sufficient.  When  the  act  loomed 
before  us  as  though  it  had  just  been  committed,  an 
irrefutable  witness  acknowledged  it. 


PIERRE  DAGON. 
A  new  ghost  ? 

AUDE. 

A  living  flesh,  a  living  conscience,  who,  from  a 
feeling  of  humanity,  had  wished  to  attenuate  cer- 
tainty into  doubt,  so  as  to  be  able  to  keep  the  secret 
and  avoid  the  horror  of  a  denunciation.  I  sought  for 
it ;  I  probed  it ;  I  forced  it  to  answer,  to  testify,  to 
confirm  the  inner  proof  by  the  manifest  one. 


THE  HONEYSUCKLE  16$ 

PIBEEK  DAGON. 


Who? 


AUDE. 

You  ask  that  ?  I  did  not  think  you  could  become 
more  ghastly  pale  than  you  were.  The  doctor  .  .  . 
Maclaine,  Christian  Maclaine  ...  a  few  hours  ago 
he  was  here ;  and  my  suffering  was  his  suffering. 

[He  lets  himself  drop  on  a  chair  as  though  plunged 
into  a  dark  void.  The  last  word  of  hia 
defence  is  listless,  uttered  almost  in  a  dream. 


PTEEEK  DAGON. 
Yes :  delirium  is  contagious. 


AUDE. 

There  is  a  poison  that  resists  even  putrefaction, 
and  that  could  be  found  intact  in  the  nameless 
thing,  after  three  years  of  secrecy.  It  is  the  incor- 
ruptible seed  of  hospitality.  It  would  perhaps  serve 
again.  .  .  .  Has  that  occurred  to  you  ? 


i66  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

[He    is    entirely    absorbed    in    his    engrossing 

thought.     She  comes  near  and  leans  a  little 

towards  him,  pitiless,  looking  at  his  hands 

that  he  has  laid  on  his  knees. 

You  no  longer  see.  Your  eyes  have  lost  their 
sight.  May  cowardice  thus  brand  those  criminal 
hands  and  tear  them  from  your  wrists,  and  let  them 
drop  to  earth,  with  the  resolution  stamped  on  them 
which  I  can  read  as  plainly  as  their  lines  and  their 
veins.  .  .  . 

[He  starts  forward  full  of  revolt,  his  fists  clenched. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

Ah,  no !  They  are  still  so  powerful  that  they 
would  know  how  to  curb  your  hatred  and  your 
pride,  as  they  knew  how  to  show  to  your  delusion 
the  path  that  should  have  led  you  back  to  yourself, 
in  deeds  of  life,  in  efforts  for  salvation  ! 

AUDE. 
The  vanquished  is  rising  again  ? 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
I  am  not  vanquished,  and  I  have  no  need  to  rise 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  167 

again,  for  I  have  never  been  so  confident  in  myself 
for  my  vigil  during  the  storm.  My  courage  can 
reflect  my  action  without  wavering  and  without 
growing  pale. 

AUDE. 

You  could  not  have  grown  more  pale   even  in 
death. 


PIERRE  DAGON. 

I  do  not  speak  of  my  poor  face,  but  of  my  silent 
courage,  to  which  you  have  opposed  your  morbid 
agitation,  and  a  phantom  born  of  your  real 
suffering,  to  which  I  am  not  insensitive.  Here,  in 
this  secluded  room,  almost  warm  with  tears,  in  this 
very  home  of  your  delirium  and  your  martyrdom, 
where  a  man's  heart  cannot  help  feeling  compassion 
and  regret  .  ,  , 


AUDE. 

Neither  compassion  nor  regret.  I  have  fought 
the  good  fight,  without  weakness,  without  coward- 
ice. 


168  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  II 

PIEKKE  DAGON. 

And  it  is  not  I  who  will  commit  an  act  of  cow- 
ardice towards  my  action,  even  if  I  did  grow  pale 
before  the  deformed  and  debased  image  of  my  act. 
Do  you  believe,  can  you  believe,  that  I  obeyed  a 
feeling  of  fear  or  of  shame  in  disputing  with  you  my 
secret  ?  Do  you  think  that  my  obstinate  denials,  that 
my  smiling  dissimulation,  that  my  violence  even, 
attempted  to  hide  an  ignominious  fault  and  elude 
the  stamp  of  infamy  ?  Do  you  know  me  as  the  kind 
of  man  who,  after  having  once  dared,  tries  to  shun 
danger  with  the  subterfuges  and  wiles  of  a  miserable 
scoundrel  ?  Am  I  one  to  trouble  myself  to  find  the 
right  word  and  gesture,  drawing  in  my  claws,  to 
gain  a  restful  impunity  ?  You  have  discovered  that 
being  within  me,  that  other  who  hides  in  me. 
Not  one  only,  but  a  thousand — not  one  soul  but  a 
thousand  souls ;  and  monsters  also,  a  burden  of 
different  and  antagonistic  forces,  sometimes  over- 
whelming. Such  is  the  man  of  flesh  and  fate,  such  a 
man  am  I,  living  among  so  many  blind  spectres.  And 
I  looked  at  him  and  I  listened  to  him,  that  other, 
that  stranger,  here  just  now,  whilst  he  was  playing 
that  ghastly  game  with  you,  whilst  he  avoided  your 
attack  and  shunned  your  persecution ;  and  I  gazed 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  169 

upon  him  with  a  sadness  far  more  bitter  than  your 
raillery.  To  fill  the  measure  of  his  humiliation  one 
thing  only  was  wanting  :  that  you  should  have  lent 
him  one  of  your  dresses  and  that  he  should  have 
sobbed  at  your  feet  like  a  whimpering  girl.  The 
murderer  who  confesses  and  repents  in  the  virginal 
room,  his  neck  under  the  avenging  heel !  Do  you 
think  I  look  that  sort  of  man  ?  Tell  me. 


AUDB. 

Perhaps,  being  more  cowardly,  you  preferred  to 
seize  me  by  the  wrists  and  twist  them. 


PIERRE  DAGON. 

Yes — I  beg  your  pardon,  I  beg  a  thousand  par- 
dons— because  I  could  no  longer  restrain  my  im- 
patience at  that  cruel  provocation,  at  that  useless  and 
sinister  game.  I  hoped  to  frighten  you,  to  subdue 
you,  and  to  succeed  in  still  keeping  my  secret  from 
all  profanation. 

AUDE. 
Profanation,  do  you  say  ? 


j?o  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  It 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

I  do,  You  who  pretend  to  be  a  being  raised 
by  suffering  into  a  pure  spirit,  and  yet  can  see 
nothing  beyond  little  material  signs,  you  who  live 
encased  in  the  frame  of  that  gloomy  mirror,  fascinated 
by  two  ghastly  hands  and  a  bowed  face,  you  who  wish 
to  stir  cold  ashes  to  find  in  them  an  incorruptible 
seed,  do  you  know  this  proud  sentence  of  a  murderer  ? 
"  If  this  is  a  crime,  I  wish  that  all  my  virtues  should 
kneel  before  my  crime." 

ADDE. 
That  was  the  voice  of  a  rebellious  hero. 


PIERRE  DAQON. 

What  do  you  know  of  heroism  except  its  conven- 
tional forms  and  its  plausible  images  ?  There  is  another 
sense,  more  profound  than  sight  or  hearing.  There 
is  a  beauty  in  every  action,  even  in  the  most  sombre. 
There  are  unwonted  sacrifices  that  neither  your 
reason  nor  your  faith  can  attain.  In  friendship  as 
in  love,  the  gift  of  death  is  sometimes  equal  to  the  gift 
of  life.  You  who  accuse,  you  who  judge,  could  you 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  i?i 

understand  ?  Would  you  know  how  to  fathom  my 
enigma  as  I  know  how  to  interpret  your  dreams  ? 
Poor,  naive  child,  always  there  on  the  watch  to  spy 
into  all  the  crevices  of  my  soul  and  to  fashion  from 
each  of  my  words  a  weapon  to  open  my  heart ! 

AUDE. 
I  will  open  it. 

PIEREE  DAGON. 

And  after  ?  He  alone  could  read  in  it  who  had 
reached  the  depth  of  sin  and  suffering,  the  zenith  of 
will  and  beauty. 

AUDE. 
You  have  destroyed  all. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

I  have  exalted  all.  Did  I  not  even  attempt  to 
raise  you  above  yourself  ? 

AUDE, 

You  weighed  on  me  with  all  your  perverse 
forces. 


i?2  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

If  it  were  a  yoke,  you  seemed  to  wear  it   like 
wings. 

AUDE. 

I  still  bear  the  trace  of  it,  and  have  wept  in  vain 
to  obliterate  it. 


PIERRE  DAGON. 

How  many  times,  when  weeping,  did  you  ask  me 
the  wherefore  of  your  tears  ?  What  has  become  of 
the  tears,  known  only  to  you,  that  Clariel  has  not 
learnt  ?  You  used  to  say  to  me  with  the  fervour  of 
a  martyr:  "You  do  not  know  what  one  suffers." 
I  answered  :  "  I  know."  And  I  thought  to  become 
part  of  your  suffering,  like  that  brother  who  for  sole 
answer  laid  himself  down  on  the  burning  rack  beside 
the  tortured  one.  But  what  do  you  do  in  exchange 
to-day,  for  me — unless  it  be  to  disown  me,  humble  me, 
disgrace  me  ?  I  am  tired,  you  have  already  said,  of 
having  done  too  much.  More  often  I  have  given, 
and  lost  what  I  gave. 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  173 

AUDB. 

I  recognize  the  art  of  the  insidious  fiend.  But 
no,  I  have  no  pity  for  you,  none  for  myself,  none 
for  others.  To  destroy  in  me  the  remembrance  of 
what  was,  I  should  be  dead  already  if  I  had  not 
imposed  upon  myself  the  hard  task  of  living  to 
accomplish  my  vow.  I  have  thrown  everything  on 
to  the  funeral  pile,  and  I  can  at  last  put  on  my 
white  robe.  In  vain  you  still  attempt  to  destroy 
by  words,  what  is  unchangeable.  You  are  charged 
and  convicted,  Pierre  Dagon.  You  are  judged  and 
condemned. 


PIERRE  DAGON. 

I  alone  can  judge  and  condemn  myself.  He  who 
after  hard  fighting  succeeds  in  mastering  himself, 
considers  as  his  privilege  the  right  to  punish  or 
pardon  himself,  and  I  yield  it  to  no  other.  If  all 
my  actions  are  worth  to  me  what  they  have  cost  me, 
none  is  more  valuable  to  me  than  the  one  you  per- 
vert— the  frenzy  of  murder  or  the  intoxication  of 
sacrifice.  If  I  look  within  myself,  in  the  horror 
even  of  my  silence,  I  do  not  feel  belittled.  I  feel, 
on  the  contrary,  my  demon  growing  there,  where 


174  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

my  torture  gnaws  within  me.      There   are  depths 
from  which  stars  are  born. 


AUDE. 

I  will  bear  mine  in  my  hand  this  evening,  like  a 
fiery  brand — and  yours  ? 

PIERRE  DAQON 
I  wait  until  a  new  one  is  born  of  it. 


AUDE. 
Of  a  new  horror,  or  of  death  ? 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

What  is  death?  "Do  you  really  believe  one 
can  die  ?  "  That  is  the  question  on  which  you  have 
shown  such  extraordinary  anxiety. 


AUDE. 
"  One  can  kill."     That  is  the  answer  of  the  traitor 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  175 

who  sacrifices.      But  if  we  both  had   to  die  now, 
could  you  still  lie  to  me  ? 

PIEERE  DAGON. 

What  use  could  there  be  in  lying?  And  what 
could  happen  to  me  that  is  not  already  on  my 
conscience  ? 

AUDE. 

Then  let  your  conscience  set  up  before  my  pas- 
sion the  true  image  of  your  act.  Why  did  you  kill  ? 
How  did  you  kill  ?  Strip  yourself  of  all  lies  and 
all  cunning,  as  if  your  moment  had  come,  and  I  had 
already  put  on  my  white  robe.  I  order  you  to 
speak.  I  order  you  to  be  yourself  before  the 
inexorable  opponent. 

[She  leans  towards  him,  quivering  with  menace 
and  expectation,  like  a  tortured  flame.  The 
man  seems  for  a  moment  to  vacillate  on  the 
edge  of  his  mystery. 

The  shadow  takes  possession  of  your  face  and 
your  hands. 

[He  shivers  and  steps  lack  suddenly,  convulsed 
by  his  strong  pride. 


176  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  n 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

No.  This  is  the  secret  of  the  soul  and  a  sacred 
pledge.  I  still  wish  to  remain  alone  with  it  and  my 
contempt,  to  measure  my  height  and  to  prepare 
myself  for  a  greater  and  freer  solitude.  Of  my 
bonds  I  have  not  made  roots.  I  am  the  master 
of  my  life  and  my  death. 


AUDE. 

Beware.  No  one  is  master  of  his  life  nor  of  his 
death. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

Oh,  child,  and  what  matters  life,  what  matters 
death?  And  what  can  I  fear  hereafter,  in  this 
world  or  beyond  ? 

AUDE. 

Take  care.  I  have  a  commandment  within  myself 
that  I  must  obey. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
Go  and  pray  ! 


ACT  ii  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  177 

AUDB. 

I  have  offered  my  last  prayer  on  that  smouldering 
tomb. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

A   flame  may  spring  forth  from  it  during  the 
night.     Good-bye. 

[As  he  turns  towards  the  door,  disdainful  and 
gloomy,  AUDE  raises  her  hand  with  a  gesture 
of  menace  and  self-dedication. 


CURTAIN. 


THE  THIRD  ACT 

SCENE  :  A  quadrangular  stone  terrace,  encircled  with  a 
balustrade,  without  vases  or  statues,  like  narrow 
lists,  bare  and  solitary,  close  to  the  ancient  cypresses 
of  the  "  Tenebree"  It  is  reached  by  three  steps 
from  a  long  landing  leading  on  one  side  to  a 
staircase  going  down  to  the  lower  terrace,  and  on 
the  other  to  the  staircase  going  up  to  the  upper 
terrace,  which  projects  into  the  sky  like  the  prow 
of  a  ship.  A  great  arched  vault  unites  the  two 
smooth  stone  doors  opening  on  the  two  handrails, 
which  are  simple  and  strong,  made  of  a  single 
band  with  a  moulding,  with  something  of  austere 
Doric  simplicity. 

Through  the  opening  of  the  arches  is  seen  the  glimmer- 
ing of  the  west,  behind  the  trunks  of  cypresses  of 
unequal  heights,  set  in  row$  like  the  pipes  of 
a  great  bronze  organ.  In  the  masses  of  their 
perennial  verdure,  the  venerable  branches  are  more 
twisted  and  more  entangled  than  their  lowest  roots* 
179 


I8o  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  nr 

The  flaming  light  of  evening  pervades  it  mys- 
teriously, reddening  the  hopeless  depths,  like  live 
coals  covered  with  sombre  scales. 

The  stone  terrace  is  silent  and  deserted.  AUDE'S  voice 
is  heard  on  the  staircase  leading  down  from  the 
upper  terrace. 

THE  VOICE  OF  AUDE. 

Good-bye,  good-bye,  Swallow !  Good-bye,  Clariel ! 
[The  voice  of  THE  SWALLOW  is  heard  answering 
from  below,  clear  and  fresh,  whilst  her  com- 
panion steps  on  to  the  threshold,  crosses  the 
landing,  goes  up  the  three  steps,  runs  to  the 
balustrade  and  leans  forward  to  wave  once 
again.  She  wears  her  white  robe  and  her 
sandals, 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SWALLOW. 
Good-night,  Aude,  good-night.     Until  to-morrow, 
to-morrow  early.     I  shall  be  there  for  Mass.     I  will 
not  fail.     I  will  bring  you  lilies  from  Sormarin,  a 
big  bunch.1 

AUDE. 

Good-bye,  sweet  little  Clariel !  Be  happy,  be  happy ! 
Do  not  forget  your  Audain. 


ACT  in  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  181 

THE  VOICE  OP  THE  SWALLOW. 
Good-night !     Good-night !     Sleep,  sleep  well,  this 
night.     Go  soon  to  bed.     I  want  you  to  sleep.     Do 
you  hear,  Aude  ? 

AUDE. 
I  will  sleep,  I  will  sleep. 

THE  VOICE  OP  THE  SWALLOW. 
And  awaken  with  a  face  "  made  of  a  rose." 

AUDE. 
I  will,  I  will.1 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SWALLOW. 
I  cannot  see  you  any  more.     Lean  forward. 

AUDE. 
Good-bye ! 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SWALLOW. 
Ah  $    Audain !    Audain  !   Look,  look  at  the  happy 


182  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  in 

omen !     Raise  your  head.     The  crescent  is  on  your 
left ;  on  your  left,  the  new  moon  ! 

[AuDE  raises  her  head  and  looks  at  the  sky. 
Good-night!     Good -night ! 

[The  voice  disappears.  AUDE  leans  farther 
forward.  ] 

AUDE. 
Good-bye !     Good-bye ! 

[The  mother  appears  at  the  door  of  the  staircase 
that  leads  up  from  the  lower  terrace.  She  is 
gasping,  almost  unrecognizable,  disfigured 
by  despair.  9 

LAUKENCE  DAG  ON. 
Aude! 

[The  girl  shudders  at  the  unexpected  call,  and 
turns  round.  The  mother  rushes  towards 
her,  gasping. 

At  last  I  find  you  !  Why  did  you  go  away  ?  Why 
did  you  leave  me  like  that  ?  I  looked  for  you  every- 
where. How  is  it  I  did  not  fall  stricken  on  the  way  ? 
Child,  child,  help  me !  I  am  exhausted. 

[She  drops  on  the  stone  seat  as  if  she  were  going 
to  faint. 


ACT  in  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  1*3 

AUDE. 

Ah !  Mother,  why  must  you  be  terrible  to  me  to 
the  end  ?  How  can  I  help  you  ?  What  can  I  still 
say  to  you  ?  Yes,  I  ran  away  because  I  know  how  to 
be  strong,  but  I  become  weak  in  your  presence.  Since 
the  day  when  my  thoughts  were  against  you,  I  have 
thrust  you  from  me.  Now  doubt  has  become  a  cer- 
tainty. And  you  do  not  even  think  of  vindicating 
yourself.  And  it  is  I  who  have  to  run  away,  and 
you  pursue  me ;  whilst,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  wish 
to  find  myself  already  at  the  end  of  the  world. 


LAURENCE. 

I  am  at  the  end  of  my  despair.  I  am  neither 
living  nor  dead.  And  I,  who  brought  you  into  this 
world,  I  conceive  now  the  inconceivable,  the  joy  of 
not  being  born.  If  I  look  for  you,  if  I  pursue  you, 
it  is  to  tell  you  that  what  you  think  against  me 
surpasses  treason,  exceeds  murder.  .  .  . 


AUDE. 
Unhappy  woman ! 


1 84  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  in 

LAURENCE. 

I  did  not  understand.  The  first  time,  there,  in 
your  room,  a  few  hours  ago,  centuries  ago,  when  I 
begged  you  not  to  see  him,  not  to  talk  to  him,  really, 
I  had  not  understood.  I  swear  to  you.  You  said  : 
"  Is  it  true  what  you  acknowledge  ?  is  it  true  what 
you  confess  ?  "  I  did  not  know  what ;  I  could  not 
imagine  what.  My  mind  was  a  blank;  my  brain 
was  a  whirl.  I  saw  you  distorted  as  in  a  nightmare. 
I  saw  your  lips  moving,  and  the  words  that  I  heard 
had  no  meaning.  Already  the  whole  of  my  life  was 
petrified  in  the  terror  of  a  conjecture,  but  I  could  not 
grasp  this  new  atrocity.  I  swear  to  you.  I  did  not 
understand,  nor  did  I  the  second  time.  I  was 
overwhelmed  by  the  blow — prostrated.  The  words 
you  said  to  me  I  heard  as  in  a  turmoil,  as  in  a 
thunderstorm.  What  could  I  answer?  Perhaps 
you  went  away  so  as  not  to  trample  on  me.  .  .  . 

AUDE. 
Ah !  spare  me ! 

LAURENCE. 

I  regained  control  of  myself.  I  rose,  excess  of 
suffering  quells  suffering,  and  again  I  heard  within 


ACT  in  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  185 

me  those  obscure  words,  and  their  meaning  flashed 
suddenly  across  me.  I  know  now.  You  accuse  me 
of  being  his  accomplice,  of  having  known  and  fur- 
thered his  design,  of  having  helped  him  to  kill  .  .  . 

AUDE. 

I  cannot  listen  to  you.     If  you  continue,  I  shall 
let  myself  fall  down  .  .  .  there. 

[AuDE  leans  on  the  balustrade,  her  hands  on  the 
rail,  tense,  impatient,  and  wild. 

LAURENCE. 

No,  you  shall  listen,  you  shall  answer.     That  is 
what  you  think  ?     That  is  what  you  imply  ? 

AUDE. 
Yes. 

[The  mother  reels  as  if,  wounded  in  the  heart, 
she  was  going  to  collapse  on  the  Jlagstones. 
AUDE  makes  an  instinctive  movement  to 
support  her,  but,  seeing  that  she  remains 
standing,  she  hesitates  and  refrains  from 
touching  her.  The  mother's  voice  is  now 
like  that  of  those  heroic  wounded  whose  courage 
alone  enables  them  to  breathe. 


1 86  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  in 

LAURENCE. 

I  see  it  now.  It  is  not  doubt,  [it  is  certainty. 
Henceforth  there  remains  only  death.  For  just  now 
you  looked  at  me  as  if  to  decide  on  the  force  of  your 
blow,  and,  although  you  thought  me  on  the  verge  of 
falling,  you  were  careful  not  to  come  near  or  touch 
me,  so  loathsome  am  I  to  you. 

AUDE. 

God !  Oh,  God  !  But  what  do  you  expect  me  to  do  ? 
Do  you  wish  me  to  implore  your  pardon  ?  Kiss  your 
hands  ?  Am  I  in  one  world  and  you  in  another  ?  Do 
I  speak  another  language  ?  Does  truth  exist  or  not 
exist  ?  Is  it  true  or  not  true,  that  which  has  been 
committed?  A  few  moments  ago  the  vilest  crime 
had  become  a  heroic  sacrifice.  And  now  you  reproach 
me  for  not  having  clasped  you  in  my  arms. 

LAURENCE. 

No,  no,  you  are  mistaken.  I  do  not  attempt  to 
save  myself.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  saved.  I  will  not 
see  the  light  of  to-morrow.  I  do  not  think  my  misery 
could  bear  it,  just  as  you  do  not  dream  that  your 
hatred  could  give  you  back  what  you  have  lost. 


ACT  in  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  187 

Already,  far  more  than  half  of  me  is  plunged  in 
darkness.  Listen  to  me,  since  it  is  through  my  poor 
body,  through  my  miserable  flesh  that  life  comes  to 
you.  My  body  counts  no  longer.  It  is  dead.  I 
rise  from  my  flesh  as  from  a  stretcher.  My  soul 
alone  is  before  you,  and  it  hides  nothing  from  you. 
Listen!  I  did  not  do  what  you  think.  I  am 
wretched,  half-mad ;  I  have  in  me  and  behind  me 
every  misery,  every  error ;  but  I  am  not  sullied  .  .  . 
by  that  infamy. 

AUDE. 

May  God  give  me  grace  to  believe  you,  before 
I  die  !  That  is  my  last  prayer. 

LAURENCE. 

Believe  me,  believe  me !  Do  you  not  hear  my 
cry  of  anguish  ?  For  one  moment  let  your  heart 
soften ;  break  the  hardness  that  surrounds  it !  I 
take  all  on  myself,  but  not  that.  I  sinned 
through  passion,  but  not  through  iniquity.  I  am 
lost  to  you,  but  I  am  not  lost  to  myself.  Your 
covert  and  insistent  accusation  I  took  at  first  for  a 
delusion,  for  a  form  of  delirium.  Then  I  began  to 
tremble,  without  daring  to  realize  it.  And  now  I 


188  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  in 

am  dying  of  it.  But  I  was  ignorant  of  all.  I  had 
no  suspicion,  then  or  later.  Nothing  was  confided  or 
confessed  to  me.  And  with  what  could  they  reproach 
me  if  during  the  ordeal  my  solicitude  never  relaxed 
for  one  hour,  if  I  had  the  strength  to  fulfil  my  duty 
until  the  end  ? 

AUDE. 

Do  not  say  that,  do  not  say  that,  or  else  every- 
thing will  be  at  an  end.  How  should  I  believe  you, 
if  you  show  that  you  have  forgotten  all  the  evil  ? 

LAURENCE. 
In  what  did  I  fail,  then  ? 

AUDB. 

You  forget !  You  forget !  And  you  ask  of  me 
an  act  of  faith  ?  I  beg  of  you,  I  beg  of  you,  leave 
me  alone  to  my  night.  Look,  now  the  windows  are 
being  opened.  Let  me  guard  my  silence  with  a  hand 
on  my  mouth. 

LAURENCE. 

I  cannot.  This  hour  will  never  come  back  to  us 
again. 


ACT  in  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  189 

AUDE. 

I  had  purified  myself.  Do  you  see  ?  I  have  on 
my  white  robe  and  a  commandment  within  me  which 
I  must  obey.  I  had  repeated  the  Holy  words :  "  Oh, 
my  Father,  if  it  be  possible,  let  this  cup  pass  from 
me."  Must  I  drain  it  ? 

LAURENCE. 
I  must  drink  my  share — the  dregs. 

AUDE. 

Let  it  be  so.  You  gave  me  eyes  too  large,  and 
you  forgot  to  put  in  my  blood  the  gift  of  f orgetf ulness. 
In  defending  yourself,  you  tried  previously  to  show 
yourself  irreproachable  unto  the  end,  faithful  before 
death  although  unfaithful  after.  You  try  still, 
miserable  woman,  and  yet  you  say  your  whole  soul 
is  bared  to  me  ! 

[The  mother  is  bewildered,  loses  all  self-control, 
shaken  by  a  trembling  that  seems  to  prostrate 
her.  Her  voice  dies  away. 

LAURENCE. 
Is  it  not  ? 


190  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  in 

AUDE. 

I  have  breathed  in  a  flame.  You  have  made  me 
breathe  in  a  horrible  flame.  .  .  . 

LAURENCE. 
Oh,  God  !     Oh,  God ! 

AUDE. 

Do  you  believe,  or  rather,  do  you  expect  me  to 
believe,  that  he  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  without 
seeing,  without  knowing,  ignorant  of  all  ?  But  the 
lightest  of  your  steps  round  the  bed  made  him  suffer 
more  than  if  you  had  walked  on  his  breast  with  feet 
of  fire. 

LAURENCE. 
Ah !  what  have  I  done  ? 


AUDE. 

Even  before,  before  being  chained  to  the  bed  by 
that  dreadful  illness,  some  evenings,  when  he  was 
alone  with  me,  he  would  clasp  me  suddenly  in  his 
arms  with  a  despair  that,  for  me,  plunged  the  earth 
in  darkness  and  obscured  the  whole  future.  He  did 


ACT  in  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  i9I 

not  speak,  but  he  strained  me  closer  to  him.  And 
I  felt  his  tears  drop  heavy  on  my  hair.  .  .  .  Ah,  ten 
years  of  misery  could  not  have  aged  me  as  much  as 
one  of  those  drops.  When  we  came  back  to  the 
house,  I  seemed  to  return  from  the  depths  of  I  know 
not  what  disaster,  faded,  withered,  without  youth. 
What  other  garland  could  I  have  worn  after  ?  They 
are  here,  those  tears— they  are  all  here,  hardened, 
polished  ;  they  have  become  diamonds  that  cut. 

LAURENCE. 
I  did  not  know.     I  did  not  know. 


AUDE. 

You  did  not  know  that  he  loved  you,  that  he  loved 
you  so  much  ? — that  he  had  buried  in  you  the  roots 
of  his  life  ? — that  he  looked  on  you  as  his  companion 
and  his  creation,  his  dream  and  his  work  ? 


LAURENCE! 
Oh,  stop ! 

AUDE. 
You  did  not  know  that  he  loved  you  as  my  brother 


192  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  in 

loves  his  wife  to-day  ?  For  my  brother,  your  son, 
loves  his  wife  with  all  his  life,  past  recovery.  There, 
in  my  room,  before  you  came  in,  I  felt  his  great 
heart  quivering  in  the  shadows  I  created  to  test  him. 
"Ah,  no,  no!"  he  faltered.  "I  would  cease  to 
exist,  I  would  die."  And  that  which  was  done  to 
his  father  will  be  done  to  him,  and  it  is  you  who  have 
prepared  it — willed  it. 

LAURENCE. 

It  is  not  true,  it  is  not  true !  No,  no !  It  is  im- 
possible that  that  should  be  true.  Oh,  God !  Oh, 
God !  What  must  I  do  ?  To  die  is  not  sufficient. 


AUDE, 
No,  to  die  is  not  sufficient. 

LAURENCE. 

Cruel  child,  creature  born  of  anguish  and  fury, 
how  I  shrieked,  in  what  mortal  terror,  in  what  agony 
I  gasped  when  they  tore  you  from  my  womb! 
And  now  I  seem  to  beget  you  once  again  of  my 
torture. 


CT  in  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  193 

AUDE. 

One  has  seen  mothers  rocking  coffins. 


LAURENCE. 

But  none  bearing  so  heavy  a  heart.     You  were 

within  me,  you  lived  within  me,  more  secret  than  the 

heart,  sweeter  than  milk.     At  times,  as  I  sat,  I  felt 

you  fluttering  within  me,  like  a  vein  of  happiness ;  as 

I  sat  there,  not  thinking,  almost  drowsing,  with  the 

sun  on  my  eyelids.  .  .  .  You  were  born  of  me,  you 

have  wept,  you  have  smiled.   And  now  you  are  there, 

the  same,  being   of  my  flesh ;  you  are  there,  tall, 

obscure,   hostile,  burdened    with    fate,    filled    with 

horrible  thoughts,   filled   with   thoughts    that  you 

know  and   that  I   do  not   know,   cleverer   than  I, 

perhaps  even  sadder  than  I,  now  that,  all  at  once,  I 

have  become  old,  now  that  I  have  nothing  left,  that 

no  one  loves  me  any  more,  that  I  have  done  all  this 

wrong.  ...  My  child,  my  child,  tell  me  it  is  not 

true. 

AUDE. 
You  still  wish  to  shut   your  eyes ! — still  wish  to 


194  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  in 

delude  and  to  spare  yourself  !    You  must  know  every- 
thing. 

LAURENCE. 

You  are  sure  of  it  ?  Of  what  are  you  sure  ?  Up 
to  what  point  ? 

[The  words  burn  her  lips,  though  she  whispers 

them.     The  girl  turns  her  head  away  and 

covers  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Yes,  for  you  to  be  able  to  speak  to  me  like  that,  for 

me  to  dare  to  question  you,  you  must  indeed  have 

wrenched  me  from  you.    There  can  be  no  longer  any 

tie  between  us,  any  restraint,  anything  unsullied,  nor 

anything  pure,  nor  have  we  even  enough  blood  in 

our  veins  to  be  able  to  blush  with  shame.     But  tell 

me  ... 

AUDK. 
May  God  heal  my  eyes  before  He  seals  them ! 

LAURENCE. 

Is  that  possible  ?  If  I  tried  to  come  back,  if  I 
begged,  if  I  humbled  myself,  I  did  it  with  the  hope 
of  winning  you  back  to  me,  and  for  the  good  of  my 
son,  for  the  love  of  my  child,  so  dear  to  me,  so 


ACT  in  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  195 

gentle ;  who  lias  never  caused  me  sorrow,  who  has 
never  suspected  or  disowned  me.  And  now  it  is  I, 
myself,  who  bring  unhappiness  to  him  in  the  house 
he  has  regained,  who  cast  an  evil  spell  over  him  ;  I 
who  bring  back  the  enemy,  who  deliver  him  into 
the  hands  of  the  enemy.  .  .  .  Ah  !  is  it  possible  ? 
Tell  me,  tell  me !  I  am  lost  and  you  are  sinking, 
but  I  must  save  my  son — you  must  save  your 
brother.  You  and  I,  are  we  not  ready  to  give  up 
everything  for  him  ? 

[A  prelude  is  heard  rising  from  the  organ  in  the 
chapel  below.  An  extraordinary  emotion 
illumines  the  face  of  the  avenger. 

AUDK. 
Listen !     Listen ! 

[The  deep  chords  seem  to  rise  amidst  the  black 
cypresses  that  quiver  from  root  to  tree- top. 

Who  speaks  ?    Whose  voice  is  that  ?     It  chills  my 
bones. 

LAURENCE. 
I  am  frozen. 

[In  the  mystical  evening  sky  the  solemn  har- 
monies seem  to  exalt  the  grandeur  of  the 


196  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  HI 

funereal  trees.  Each  tree-top  rises  like  a 
supplication  towards  the  presage  of  the  first 
star. 

AUDE. 

One  thing  alone  lives,  in  the  night,  one  alone — 
this  tomb.  It  is  not  a  stone,  it  is  a  spirit.  Do  you 
not  feel  the  cypresses  swaying,  the  stones  vibrating 
under  our  feet  ? 

LAURENCE. 

"What  a  radiance  is  on  your  countenance !  How 
white  your  dress  is !  Aude  !  Sacrifice  me ! 

[She   goes  towards   the  maiden,  as  if  to   offer 
herself. 

AUDE. 
No,  I  do  not  want  you  to  touch  me. 


LAURENCE. 

I  swear  to  you,  I  swear  to  you  that  I  am  not  what 
you  think  me. 

AUDE. 
Mother,  go  and  pray. 


ACT  in  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  197 

LAURENCE. 

I  swear  to  you,  I  did  not  know.     Ah  !     I  did  not 
know  I  had  given  my  soul  to  a  murderer. 


AUDE. 

Leave  me.  I  cannot  waste  my  vigil.  Leave  me 
alone.  The  time  has  come.  Go  and  pray. 

[The  prelude  ceases.  The  swell  of  the  last  chord 
rises  amidst  the  cypresses  and  dies  away. 
There  is  a  great  silence. 

LAURENCE. 

I  hold  myself  guilty  of  all  wrong,  and  I  am  ready 
to  expiate  in  every  way,  with  my  whole  being, 
in  this  life  and  in  death,  and  beyond;  but  of 
the  infamy  of  which  you  accuse  me  I  am  inno- 
cent. Come!!  The  murderer  himself  will  tell  you 
that. 

AUDE 

Do  not  touch  me.  I  refuse  to  hear  any  more,  to 
know  any  more. 


198  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  in 

LAURENCE. 

You  must  come  with  me,  to  find  them.   You  must 
not  refuse  to  hear  the  truth. 


AUDE. 

I  do  not  believe  any  more,  I  cannot  believe  any 
more.  Everything  is  treachery ;  everything  is  false- 
hood. Let  go  of  me !  Leave  me  alone !  Why  do 
you  desecrate  me  ? 

[The  mother  feels  under  her  hand  something 
like  a  weapon,  hidden  in  the  folds  of  the  white 
robe,  near  the  girdle. 

LAURENCE. 
What  have  you  here  ? 

AUDE. 

You  search  me  ?  I  won't  have  it.  I  won't  have 
it. 

[She  resists  and  makes  desperate  efforts  to  free 
herself. 


ACT  in  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  199 

LAURENCE. 

Aude,  Aude,  what  have  you  there  ?  What  are 
you  hiding  ? 

AUDE. 

I  will  not  be  searched.  Let  me  go !  Be  careful. 
Do  not  provoke  me  beyond  endurance. 

[But  the  mother  persists.  She  has  already 
caught  hold  of  the  weapon  and  tries  to  force 
it  from  her. 

LAURENCE. 

Ah !  It  is  "  the  stiletto  of  Anthiaume,"  it  is  the 
"  Misericordia."  How  did  you  get  it  ?  Why  do  you 
wear  it?  What  do  you  want  to  do?  Give  it  to 
me ! 

AUDE. 
No,  no.     Take  care  ! 

LAURENCE. 
Let  go  of  it,  Aude ! 


THE  HONEYSUCKLE 
AUDE. 


No! 


[They  wrestle,  gasping,  the  one  choked  by  anguish, 
the  other  by  rage. 

Stop  !  stop !  or  I  will  bite  your  hand  .  .  .  or  I  do 
not  know  what  I  shall  do  !     Ah  ! 

[The  mother  has  succeeded  in  tearing  the 
weapon  from  her  ;  and  she  leaps  back  grasp- 
ing it  in  her  hand.  They  both  gasp,  but 
the  daughter  is  disfigured  by  a  wild  fury, 
leaning  against  the  balustrade,  all  white 
against  the  black  of  the  cypresses. 


LAUBENCE. 
Aude,  my  child,  what  were  you  going  to  do? 

[She  speaks  in  a  low  tone,  her  jaw  trembling, 
terrified  at  the  sight  of  this  uncontrollable 
fury. 

AUDE. 
If  you  do  not  give  me  back  that  weapon  this  in- 


ACT  ill  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  201 

stant,  I  will  throw  myself  over  head  foremost.     Put 
it  down  and  go. 

[Her  palms  on  the  rail,  her  arms  stiffened,  her 
chin  raised,  her  eyes  glittering,  she  bends 
over  and  leans  towards  the  void,  ready  to 
throw  herself  down  with  such  a  violent 
resolution  in  her  threatening  gesture  that 
her  mother  stoops,  stretches  out  her  hand, 
takes  a  few  steps,  doubled  up  as  if  crouch- 
ing on  the  flag-stones,  and  puts  down  the 
"  Misericordia  "  with  the  hilt  of  gold. 
[She  has  not  yet  withdrawn  her  hand  nor  risen, 
nor  has  the  daughter  changed  her  attitude, 
when  a  step  is  heard  on  the  staircase  to  the 
right,  and  PIERKE  DAGON  appears  on  the 
threshold. 

[He  seems  to  be  coming  to  meet  some  one,  and 
at  first  does  not  discover  the  presence  of  his 
wife  and  her  companion  on  the  terrace, 
already  darkened  by  the  gloom  of  the 
cypresses.  He  calls  in  a  low  voice,  and 
advances,  hesitating. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 

Helissent !     Ilelissent ! 


202  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  HI 

[The  wife  rises  promptly  and  puts  her  foot  on 
the  weapon  lying  on  the  ground,  hiding  it. 
Standing  thus,  she  waits  in  silence. 
[As  PIERRE  DAQON  is  coming  up  the  steps,  the 
darkness  of  the  twilight  deceives  him  again, 
and,  for    the    third    time,  he    repeats    the 
name. 
Helissent ! 

[On  discovering  his  wife  on  the  terrace  he  gives 
a  sudden  start  and  stops. 

LAURENCE. 

Helissent  is  not  here.  There  is  none  but  myself 
and  my  daughter.  We  were  coming  to  look  for 
you. 

PIERRE  DAQOK. 
Here  I  am. 

[He  has  already  gathered  up  his  whole  strength, 
knowing  that  the  hour  for  the  last  struggle 
has  come. 

LAURENCE. 
God  has  granted  that  my  daughter  should  he  my 


ACT  in  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  203 

witness  in  this  hour.  God  has  granted  that  a  faint 
shadow  should  envelop  this  horror,  and  cast  a  veil 
over  an  inhuman  countenance  that  I  should  not 
have  been  able  to  look  upon  in  the  light  of  day 
without  being  blinded. 

[No  violence  is  in  her  voice,  but  a  gravity  which 
seems  to  give  to  each  one  of  her  words  the 
weight  of  blood  and  of  tears. 


PIERRE  DAGON. 

I  have  feared  also,  in  spite  of  being  by  far  the 
stronger.  I  have  also  trembled  with  pity,  and,  I 
confess,  I  have  longed  for  a  reprieve.  But  I  did  not 
think  to  have  such  a  witness  to  a  supreme  inter- 
view that  filial  passion  can  neither  listen  to  nor 
endure.  I  refuse  to  submit  to  any  judge,  who- 
ever he  may  be,  unless  it  be  to  Love,  with  far-seeing 
eyes.  I  have  said  so  already.  But  you  shall  not 
judge  me.  One  does  not  judge  the  destiny  that 
forges  us,  nor  the  hardness  of  its  anvil,  nor  the 
cruelty  of  its  hammer.  The  tree  does  not  judge 
the  fire  that  devours  it.  And,  if  a  terrible  act  has 
been  committed,  you  also  were  weighed  down  under 
the  necessity  that  willed  it. 


204  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  in 

LAURENCE.  • 

No  ambiguous  words ;  no  double  meaning ! 
Truth,  simple  truth.  I,  too,  am  accused.  Before 
these  fixed  eyes  that  look  at  us  from  the  depths 
of  eternity,  I  am  the  accomplice,  I  knew  of  the 
scheme,  I  upheld  the  criminal  hand,  I  have  lived 
beside  the  murderer,  I  have  brought  him  back  here 
to  renew  the  infamy,  I  have  delivered  into  his  clutches 
another  prey,  I  have  prepared  another  ruin.  That 
is  the  accusation.  These  pitiless  eyes  repeat  it. 

If  I  find  favour  for  having  given  the  best  of 
myself  without  measure,  without  ceasing,  if  I  find 
favour  for  having  loved,  and  served  love  beyond 
doubt  or  hope,  if  such  blindness  in  believing,  such 
ardour  in  obeying,  so  intense  an  effort  in  conquering 
myself  counts  at  least  for  something — if  the  sudden 
shattering  of  all  that  was  my  reason  for  living 
entitles  me  to  anything,  then  I  implore  you  to  tell 
the  truth  before  this  witness  of  my  blood  and  of  my 
spirit. 

PIERRE  DAGON; 

My  poor  wife,  this  shadow  cannot  help  us.  Even 
death  would  be  too  light.  And  what  should  I 


ACT  in  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  205 

want,  what  could  I  do,  but  veil  myself  to  go  down 
into  the  silence  that  effaces  and  absolves  all? 
There  is  a  soul  for  ever  unfathomable,  a  secret 
that  can  only  be  given  and  received  from  equal  to 
equal,  a  power  older  than  necessity  and  time,  and 
greater  than  to-morrow.  I  am  not  suffering  the  last 
agony,  but  I  will  hasten  death.  What  can  you  do 
with  me  that  will  pacify  you  ?  Aude,  how  white 
your  robe  is  on  the  threshold  of  this  your  night ! 
You  predicted  me  this  "...  Vengeance  with  the 
wings  of  a  dove ! " 

[From  the  chapel  below  the  harmonies  of  the  organ 
rise  anew  and,  as  if  they  were  conducted  by 
the  vibrations  of  the  cypresses,  spread  them- 
selves from  peak  to  peak  towards  the  hyacinth 
sky. 


LAURENCE. 

Listen!  I  also  know  it,  now.  I  feel  it.  One 
thing  alone  is  alive — that  tomb  out  there,  which  is 
reopening.  I  know  it  now.  Where  the  tomb  is, 
there  is  the  resurrection.  The  father  and  the  son 
are  out  there,  one  life  in  each  chord,  one  grief  in  each 
harmony,  and  the  one  throbs  in  the  other,  the  one  is 


206  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  in 

revealed  in  the  other.  I  feel  the  flag-stones  vibrating 
under  my  feet.  And  look,  look  at  the  heartrending 
expression  on  that  speechless  face  !  What  have  you 
done  ?  What  have  you  done  ?  How  did  you  kill  ? 
Why  did  you  kill  ?  Speak ! 

[PIERRE  DAGON  is  standing.  In  a  sort  of 
religious  exaltation  he  looks  around  him, 
towards  the  sky,  towards  the  trees,  towards  the 
stone,  towards  the  motionless  creature,  towards 
his  gasping  wife.  His  voice  quivers  at  first 
with  the  most  profound  anguish. 


PIERRE  DAGON. 

If  his  spirit  is  present,  if  that  immensity  which  fills 
the  twilight  is  his  all-seeing  soul,  if  even  my  anguish 
warns  me  that  he  is  near,  I  ask  him  to  absolve  me  from 
the  sin  I  am  «,bout  to  commit  in  revealing  the  secret 
which  he  bound  me  by  an  oath  to  keep. 

Yes,  Aude,  he  was  the  companion  of  my  youth,  the 
brother  of  my  soul.  The  gift  of  life  was  received  on 
bended  knee,  and  that  life  was  blessed.  Capable  of 
every  kindness,  who  owned  a  heart  more  virile  ?  At 
times  our  friendship  was  a  strife,  and  at  times  it  was  a 
creation.  Neither  of  us  measured  what  he  bestowed 


ACT  in  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  207 

or  what  he  received.  He  gives  me  now  the  courage 
to  speak  of  the  terrible  thing  before  the  being  who 
was  as  the  sovereign  flower  of  his  melancholy.  But 
just  now,  without  meaning  to,  did  I  not  crush  the 
"  flower  of  Tristan  "  ?  Whosoever  breaks  it  off,  kills 
it.  And  what  have  I  done  ? 

One  can  live  for  years  near  a  human  soul  without 
seeing  it.  One  day,  behold,  the  eyes  look  up  and  see 
it.  Suddenly,  one  knows  not  why,  something  bursts 
like  a  dam  between  two  streams.  And  two  lives 
blend,  mingle,  and  rush  onwards.  It  was  so  with  us. 
Laurence,  my  wife,  I  have  loved  you.  Do  not  forget 
that! 

[As  if  her  feet  were  frozen  to  the  flag-stones  and 
compelled  to  terrifying  immobility,  LAURENCE 
is  like  the  cypresses,  which  shiver  continuously 
to  the  music  of  death  and  the  breeze  of  the 
evening. 


I  can  see  his  eyes  again.  They  look  at  me  once 
more.  They  are  yours,  Aude  ;  they  have  opened 
again  in  you.  There  is  his  look  behind  your  look. 
What  could  my  life  hide  from  him  ?  His  had  a  new- 
born smile  that  one  could  not  look  at  without  melting 
into  tears. 


208  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  in 

Our  silences  were  more  transparent  than  our 
thoughts.  The  unforeseen  fatality  was  above  us 
like  a  ruthless  sun.  And,  to  make  it  more  atrocious 
still,  illness  held  the  suffering  body  struggling  against 
the  inevitable  calamity. 

The  clouds  that  encumber  us  are  sometimes  dis- 
persed by  the  wind.  Our  anguish  when  expressed 
is  rendered  less  acute.  But  here  four  blind  walls 
enclosed  the  lurid  battle. 

A  dumb  certainty  lived  on  that  lifeless  pillow,  and 
he  said  to  me  one  day,  feeling  sure  of  me  :  "  Friend, 
it  is  necessary  that  one  of  us  should  die.  What  is, 
is  irrevocable.  I  feel  that  the  end  is  near,  but 
if  I  am  to  forgive  you,  you  must  hasten  it.  I 
have  that  with  which  to  put  an  end  to  myself,  a 
weapon  sure  and  beautiful,  handed  down  from  my 
ancestors.  It  is  almost  as  sharp  as  your  needle,  my 
'  Misericordia  of  Anthiaume.'  But  it  is  useless  to 
me.  No  one  must  guess,  no  one  must  know.  You 
must  contrive  somehow  this  evening  that  the 
injection  of  morphia  shall  be  deadly  ...  so,  as 
I  gave  all  to  you,  you  will  have  given  all  to  me, 
You  owe  me  that,  you  owe  it  to  me.  Those  are  the 
only  terms  between  equals.  Those  are  the  terms 
I  impose  on  you.  I  know  no  others  nobler." 


ACT  I"  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  209 

All !  what  worse  thing  could  a  man's  heart  have 
to  face  ?  And  what  have  I  to  fear  henceforth  in  this 
world  and  beyond  ?  Why  should  I  quail  ?  "  May 
your  hand  not  shake !  May  your  wrist  be  steady ! " 
He  spoke  thus.  His  heroic  will  seemed  to  cut  each 
word  like  an  invincible  diamond.  As  he  looked  into 
my  eyes,  his  will  became  my  will,  and  repressed  in 
me  every  human  impulse,  all  compassion  for  himself 
and  for  myself,  the  horror  of  our  strength,  and  my 
faintness  before  that  sacrifice  which  was  beyond 
friendship  and  love,  higher  than  life,  deeper  than 
death. 

"  If  you  do  not  wish  my  blood  to  be  upon  you  and 
upon  her  who  loves  you  and  whom  you  are  taking 
from  me,  deliver  me  from  my  despair.  And  it  will 
be  but  a  drop — not  even  that,  perhaps !  Hasten 
destiny !  Oh,  my  friend,  be  my  dearest  enemy. 
You  will  never  have  been  closer  to  my  heart.  It  is 
the  gift  of  death,  more  regal  than  the  other.  I 
wish  it." 

Ah!  these  ghastly  murderer's  hands  that  you 
thought  you  discovered  in  the  degrading  mirror, 
and  this  colourless  face  bent  over  the  abominable 
deceit ! 

I  took  my  life,  with  the  anguish,  the  love,  the 
crime,  the  remorse,  with  the  weight  of  all  the  years 

o 


210  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  in 

and  all  the  sufferings,  with  beauty  and  shame,  with 
falsehood  and  truth  ;  I  have  taken  it  with  these  two 
hands  of  man,  and  I  have  uplifted  it  there  from 
whence  the  soul  can  descend  no  more.  What  do  you 
want  of  me  ? 

[Strained,  trembling,  aglow,  AUDE  had  followed 
the  confession  without  a  quiver  of  her  eyelids. 
She  rushes  forward  with  a  frenzied  yell. 


AUDE. 
Ah  !  a  torrent  in  exchange  for  that  drop. 

[AuDE  bends  and  glides  to  the  feet  of  her  mother 
as.  if  to  pick  up  the  weapon.  But  the 
mother  seizes  her  by  the  arm  and  stays  her 
with  an  overwhelming  strength. 


LAURENCE. 

Child,  child,  look!  My  love,  my  passion,  my 
ruin,  all  myself,  look,  I  offer  to  you.  And  to  you, 
my  son. 

[Impetuously  she  waves  AUDE  aside,  she  bends 
down,  takes  from  under  her  foot  the  weapon, 


CT  in  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  211 

and    rushes    towards     the    man    to    strike 
him. 

PIEREE  DAGON. 
Whom  do  you  avenge  ? 

[He  has  not  flinched,  nor  made  a  gesture ;  but 
he  looks  at  his  wife,  who,  under  that  gaze, 
seems  for  an  instant  to  reel  and  hesitate. 
Fiercely,  AUDE  urges  her. 

Aims. 

Strike !     Strike ! 

LAURENCE. 
Love. 

[She  has  answered  in  a  low  voice,  striking  the 
man  in  the  breast  and  leaving  the  dagger  in 
the  wound.  She  leaps  back,  distraught,  and 
watches  him  stagger. 

PIERRE  DAGON. 
Friend,  brother,  you  see  me. 

a   superhuman   effort   he   holds  back   his 
spirit,  and  he  seems  to  grow  taller.      The 


212  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  in 

shadow  of  the  cypresses  broods  over  his 
agony.  The  swell  of  the  organ  spreads  to 
the  flag-stones  upon  which  he  is  about  to 
fall. 

I  have  repeated  your  words,  and  they  have  stained 
me  with  blood.  .  .  .  Sacrificed,  I  return  to  you.  .  .  . 
May  my  soul  have  the  strength  to  lead  my  body  to 
your  tomb !  You  used  to  say :  "  One  must  have  the 
courage  of  the  eagle,  the  courage  of  the  self-con- 
tained. .  .  ."  Our  day  is  beginning.  No  one  knows, 
no  one  understands.  These  poor  perplexed  women. 
...  I  will  seek  the  spark  of  a  god  in  your  ashes. 
...  I  want  ...  I  want  to  come  to  you  ...  all 
alone  .  .  . 

[Re  makes  a  few  staggering  movements,  and  sets 
his  foot  on  the  edge  of  the  first  step.  Death 
clutches  at  him,  ties  his  tongue.  He  sinks 
down  and  rolls  almost  to  the  threshold  of  the 
door  by  which  he  entered.  His  wife  has 
fallen  upon  her  knees,  as  if  struck  down  by 
terror,  incapable  of  going  to  him,  powerless 
even  to  drag  herself  along. 

LAURENCE. 

I  love  you,  I  love  you !    There,  where  you  are, 
there  shall  I  be, 


ACT  III  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  213 

[She  holds  out  her  arms  despairingly,  then  falls 
back.  AUDE  leans  over  her  with  a  movement 
of  pity  and  anguish. 

ATJDE. 

Mother,  mother,  I  kiss  your  hand !     This  hand — I 
kiss  it. 

[On  the  staircase  is  heard  the  anxious  voice  of 
HELISSENT  DE  LA  COLDEE. 

THE  VOICE  OF  HELISSENT. 

Aude!     Aude!     Who  screamed?     I  heard  some 

one  scream.     Aude,  where  are  you  ?     Who  is  there  ? 

[AuDE  runs  towards  the  corpse,  takes  from  round 

her  neck  the  long  white  scarf  and  covers  the 

motionless  face ;  then  she  draws  the  stiletto 

from  the  wound. 

[HELISSENT  appears  on  the  threshold  ;  and,  at  the 
first  step,  she  almost  falls  against  the  body 
lying  across  it,  lifeless.  She  bends  over  him, 
touches  him,  feels  him,  withdraws  her  hands, 
shivering,  ghastly  white. 

HELISSENT. 
Ah !  it  is  blood !     Who  has  killed  him  ? 


2I4  THE  HONEYSUCKLE  ACT  in 

[LAURENCE  DAGON  rises  from  her  stupor,  with 
the  look  of  those  souls  who  answer  the  call  of 
the  last  Judgment. 

[But  AUDE,  showing  in  her  hand  the  blood- 
stained "  Misericordia,"  shrieks  out  her 
vengeance. 

AUDE. 

It  is  I,  it  is  I  who  killed  him,  with  this,  to  avenge 
the  dead  and  the  living. 


EXPLICIT  TRAGCEDIA. 


FEINTED  AT 

THE  BALLANTYNE  PRESS 
LONDON    &     EDINBURGH 


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SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

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